A Beacon in the Dark
by waiting4morning
Summary: A simple op to run a synth becomes more than expected, leading Beatrice (SS) to wonder just how much she can trust her partner Deacon. Cloak and dagger missions, old friends, and traumas unearthed. Beatrice did not expect to have quite as much fun with a face-changing liar as she has been. Deacon/F!SS slowish burn. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Let me get this straight, Agent Whisper" Carrington said, his voice dripping with condescension, "you want me to lug in gallons of expensive purified water—potentially compromising our secret location because this won't be one journey—just so I can use said water multiple times a day to… wash my hands?"

"It's basic sanitation!" Beatrice insisted. "You're a doctor. Everything you touch—everything in here—is probably covered with germs. If you treat someone with an open wound—"

"I know how bacteria works!" Carrington scowled at her. "Maybe in your little _vault_ there was an endless supply of high-grade antibiotics, soap, and purified water. Here? We do the best we can with the resources we have. I'm not going to go to pointless lengths to satisfy your vault-dwelling idea of what _my_ job should be. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy."

Beatrice opened her mouth to protest that her vault hadn't been that kind of vault, but then a lightly freckled arm draped over her shoulder.

"Whisp," Deacon said in a cheerful voice, "come here. I have a really important project for you to work on."

She could almost see the corners of his eyes when she turned her head to glare at him, but allowed herself to be drawn away from the grumpy doctor by her partner.

"I thought I had the monopoly on winding Carrington up." Deacon guided Beatrice to the corner of the underground Railroad headquarters that had unofficially been designated as the "mess." It was nothing more than a few square feet of cleared brick floor where people tended to eat. She sat down in a chair against the wall, fiddling with a loose thread on her vault suit.

"It just…" Beatrice wrinkled her nose, wanting to look back at Carrington's corner, but Deacon was standing in the way, "makes me squeamish to know he's… I don't know, chopping mole rat meat and then the next, might be yanking a bullet out of someone without washing his hands. Doesn't that gross you out?"

Deacon shrugged. "Carrington's an asshole, but… he hasn't killed anyone yet. If it's not broke, don't fix it. Now," he said, going over to the supply shelf before she could protest again, "here's the project."

He overturned a trash bin of empty Nuka-Cola bottles in her lap.

She blinked at them, bemused.

"Glory has the record for a five level pyramid, but I bet you and I can do at least seven."

"I'm the champion pyramid builder, Whisper," Glory called from two desks away. "No way you'll beat me!"

Beatrice couldn't help but laugh, her shoulders unknotting. "You're on."

While they assembled the bottles, Deacon pattered happily about the time he once starred as point man in a Commonwealth basketball team—"I could have gone pro!"—and Beatrice realized instead of irritation at the obvious lie like she had been early on in their partnership, she was more amused than anything. He was obviously trying to distract her from her annoyance, and it was working. Perhaps she had been too hard on Carrington. Water access was a constant issue in the Commonwealth, let alone in the Railroad's underground hideout. Tinker Tom had been working on rigging up a filtering system to collect rainwater, but it was slow going and priorities constantly shifted when synths were on the move.

"Whisper," Desdemona said, walking to where Beatrice and Deacon were breathlessly adding the fifth layer of Nuka Cola bottles, "you're friends with Mayor Hancock over in Goodneighbor, right?"

Beatrice's hand jerked as she placed a bottle. The whole edifice shuddered but held. "Hancock? The guy who murdered someone the minute I walked into Goodneighbor?"

Desdemona's eyebrows shot up. "He murdered someone in front of you?"

"I think it was him. Tricorn hat; red coat? I've only been to Goodneighbor once—when I was hunting down this place and got turned around. I walked in, he stabbed someone, and I walked right back out."

Dez was looking at her skeptically. "Hancock won't take shit, but he's not a straight up killer. Was there a fight or something?"

Beatrice took her hands away from the pyramid, not trusting their steadiness. "Yeah. He… well, there was this guy was trying to extort me—all this crap about paying 'insurance' otherwise I might meet up with an 'accident.' Hancock happened to be walking by and got into it with him. This extortion guy said something about Goodneighbor needing a new mayor and, uh, Hancock stabbed him. I asked him for directions, then left. Never saw more of Goodneighbor than that."

"Hm," Dez said. "Sounds like Hancock did the right thing then. Anyway, it's a shame you're not as familiar with the place, but you're about to be. We've got a problem. A week ago one of the tourists in Goodneighbor spotted an escaped synth—in a white Institute jumper no less—getting harassed by a couple of raiders just outside the area. Our tourist rescued her and is letting her stay in her small apartment, but she can't be there much longer. Triggermen also spotted her in the jumpsuit, close enough to see her face. They got tangled up with the raiders, though, and the tourist was able to get her away in the chaos. Triggermen have been known to shoot suspected synths on sight—whether or not they're right—and out tourist has seen them sniffing around. G3-13 needs to be moved tonight. Hancock turns a blind eye to Railroad activities, but he can't move openly against Skinny Malone—he's too much of a power in this area, so you'll be on your own."

"Has she been mem-wiped yet?"

Dez shook her head. "She opted out."

Beatrice and Deacon exchanged a glance. She'd only been with the Railroad for three months, but even she knew that was rare. Synths usually wanted a memory wipe so they could more easily integrate with human society. But then again, Glory had opted out too, so it wasn't impossible to move forward with old memories..

Dez's features were pinched with worry. "The Triggermen knowing her face complicates matters, but there are no facial reconstruction surgeons in Goodneighbor. The closest is in Diamond City, but if we'd get her out of Goodneighbor safely then we wouldn't have to worry about changing her face."

"We'll take care of it," Beatrice said.

"Good. The tourist will leave information for a meeting at the local dead drop. Deacon knows where it is. Good luck you two."

"Death Bunnies for the win!" Deacon crowed, raising his hand for a high five.

"We haven't agreed on that name, yet!" Beatrice protested, but was unable to resist reciprocating. The pyramid of Nuka-Cola bottles crashed to the ground. They got a few glances from other agents—and a glare from distant Carrington.

"Ha!" Glory said from her desk, feet propped up as she read through some reports. "Reigning champion remains."

"Next time," Beatrice promised her.

Dez stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I need a cigarette," she muttered and turned away.

Beatrice checked the clock on her Pip-Boy. Only a little past three in the afternoon. Plenty of time to make the trek to Goodneighbor in daylight. She glanced at Deacon who was watching her with, she thought, speculation.

"What?"

He twitched. "Nothing."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to dress in drag again, are you? I'm not pulling your heels out of the muck like last time."

"Hey that was _once_."

"And we almost died trying to run from raiders because you sprained your ankle."

"Okay, okay," he said, hands raised in surrender. " _Maybe_ wearing the heels to cross that field was a bad idea. But in my defense, I needed to break them in, and I did really surprise that raider boss. He was too busy checking out my rack—"

"Which fell out of your dress the moment we stopped."

"Hey, I didn't say he was staring at my chest. He was staring at my rack. Which was on the ground."

Beatrice struggled to hold in a laugh. "But I thought the whole point of spycraft was to be inconspicuous. You make a noticeable woman, that's all I'm saying."

"Fine, fine. Shoes were a little uncomfortable anyway. I should wear them around here for a bit; see if I can stretch them out before using them in the field again."

Beatrice decided to ignore this obvious bait and glanced down at her Pip-Boy's inventory. "I think I'm pretty much ready to go with what I have in my pack." Deacon liked tease her, saying she should have picked the code name "Square" for keeping an inventory of her possessions, but at least she never left HQ without forgetting something. "I can change into wastelander gear before we go, and that should be enough for the mission."

"Sounds good." Deacon scooped up the bottles and set them back in the empty trash bin. "Let me check with Tom on a few supplies. Grab a bottle of water for the trip from Carrington?"

In an alcove with only a skeleton hanging out of a coffin to observe her, Beatrice changed into a tired set of clothes worn thin by much wear and washing, and folded her vault suit into the bottom of her pack. The Pip-Boy followed. She'd gotten used to wearing it all day, but on a Railroad op like this, it was probably best that it stay out of sight. Too many people noticed it.

In a shard of a mirror she'd been able to buy from Vault 81, she examined her appearance critically. Deacon always said the details were what really made a good disguise. Leaning down, she dirtied her fingers on the ground and smeared a bit on her cheeks and neck and lowered the cap Piper had given her a half an inch. There. With the right expression of tired despondency, she looked like any other wastelander. As long as she didn't smile too wide and show clean, white teeth that had received regular dental care her whole life.

She'd said goodbye to Glory, and was just giving Carrington caps for the water, when Deacon appeared at her elbow, his own pack slung across his back. He too was in disguise already; the set he'd named "Damon the Drifter."

"Hey!" he said brightly, spotting Beatrice's hat and gesturing at his own. "Twins!"

Carrington raised an eyebrow. "You two leaving on a mission again?"

Deacon aimed a cheery smile at Carrington. "That's right. The Commonwealth calls and we must answer. 'Deacon, please come rescue us! You're so handsome and manly and—'"

Carrington turned away with a noise of disgust. Beatrice bit her lip to avoid laughing and tugged on Deacon's pack to get him to move in the direction of the back exit.

"You know, I pulled you away from Carrington too soon this morning," Deacon said as they stepped over mattresses arranged on the floor. "I don't think I've seen anyone but Dez argue with him like that in months. Few people stand up to Carrington; they're afraid of him. If he had his way, no one would ever leave HQ. It would be far more convenient to him if synths could just materialize here." Then he seemed to shake himself as they stepped out of the HQ proper and into the dank sewer. "Still, glad to be going out on a mission again. It's been too long."

"We haven't exactly been idle," she pointed out.

"True. Never any shortage of Minutemen stuff to do," he said in a tone so carefully neutral that she slanted a glance at him, even though he was a pace or two ahead of her and the little she could see of his face was blank.

Then they both paused at a scratching sound from up ahead. Beatrice pulled Deliverer from her holster and backed into an alcove while Deacon did the same on the other side.

"Roaches," he said after a moment, and not for the first time she wondered how sharp his eyes had to be to see through his sunglasses in an already dim environment. "Want to do the honors?"

"With pleasure." She spotted two cat-sized radroaches a few feet away, antennae waving, and popped off two shots. The shells crunched as the bullets hit them and the roaches stilled.

"Nice work," he said. "Better take the leavings with us and toss 'em into the river or something. No sense in letting them stick around to attract more vermin."

Not for the first time, Beatrice had an almost out of body feeling, as if she were floating above and witnessing everything she was as Deacon grabbed one carcass and she grabbed the other as if it was nothing. As if she didn't still have memories of the fresh smell of laundry, of fascinating law school lectures, and shining cars rumbling down the streets. What slim chance that had led her to be the one walking the earth 200 years into the future? Why her? Why not Nate? He probably would have fared better than she was. He'd been a soldier—he knew how to think on a battlefield. Sure, she'd just killed two little roaches, but that coolness over two little roaches had been hard won. The first time she'd seen them, she almost fell over and screamed herself hoarse. Nate on the other hand had navigated the nightmares of PTSD and come out the other side whole.

He was also better at lying than she was.

 _Nope. Not going to think about that right now_ , she thought and stepped out of the muck, shaking it off her boots.

"What's in your bag?" she asked instead, noticing for the first time that it bulged a little.

Deacon gave her a trademark grin that gave nothing away. "Presents for the good children in the Commonwealth and lumps of coal for the bad ones."

She eyed him doubtfully. "In that getup, you look even less like Santa Claus than usual."

Deacon patted his trim waistline. "Overweight wastelander is a hard one to pull off. Too much padding to carry around, and a harder target miss in a fight."

"I'd think the white beard and bright red outfit would be the dead giveaway."

"White beard? What?"

Beatrice stopped, glee beginning to spread across her face. "You don't know that?

Reluctantly, he shook his head.

She laughed. "Got you! You owe me a truth!"

Deacon sighed. "I really need to work on my tells."

This was a favorite game of hers. Deacon was so well read—unlike most wastelanders—she occasionally forgot he wasn't pre-war. He understood most of her pop-culture references. Most. Sometimes, though, there were surprising gaps in his knowledge. He loved learning more about old world stuff, but in exchange, she wanted something true, no matter how small. It was a trade they'd worked out early on after her rocky introduction to Deacon's lies.

"Tell me about the white beard and red suit thing while I think of a truth."

Beatrice hummed a few bars of "Jingle Bells" while she recalled her Santa pop culture knowledge.

"Santa Claus is traditionally shown as an old white guy with a thick white beard—it has to be white, though I don't know why. He's always dressed in this red suit—not a business suit—more like thick winter gear to keep him warm. I think it might have been a robe in the really old days before he became commercialized?" She searched her memory for any scraps of Christmas knowledge. Her parents were second-generation Chinese immigrants who had integrated into American culture with gusto, so she'd grown up with a traditional greeting-card Christmas as was possible. And then, of course, when the war broke out when she was a teenager, it became more important than ever that they showed everyone how American they were. "It was used in all the marketing back in my day. I think that's really where it came from; probably in the old days he just wore whatever, but Nuka Cola started using him for holiday advertisements and their colors are red and white."

"Holidays co-opted by capitalism," he said in a mock-mournful voice.

"Pay up," she said with a laugh. "You're stalling."

He took a few more steps, then paused as they reached the top of the stairs that would lead them out to the riverfront. "My real hair color is ginger."

"Really?" Beatrice searched his face, then saw the edge of his eyebrows and reached up to lower the sunglasses a bit. He stiffened, but she didn't take them off, just moved them enough to see his eyebrows were definitely a reddish-orange hue. "How have I never noticed that?"

Deacon pushed his sunglasses back into place, and typed away on the terminal to unlock the door. "I usually use soot or grease or something to darken them if I'm going for a deep disguise; shaving the top doesn't take that much work. Beard comes in a little darker than up top too, so you might have thought it was brown."

Beatrice tried to imagine Deacon with red hair grown out, maybe longer on top and buzzed on the sides… and a little ginger scruff...

She cleared her throat as Deacon opened the door and cautiously peered around before beckoning her forward. "Would you ever grow it back out again?"

He shrugged. "Maybe if we ever beat the Institute, the Sox wins the pennant this year, and I can finally go on a well-earned vacation to the Poconos. Large drinks with several tiny umbrellas, here I come!"

The lies grew bigger with his discomfort, she knew, but that was okay. He was willing to play the game and give her something. And unlike Nate's lies, Deacon's didn't rip apart the fabric of their relationship, leaving nothing but tatters behind.

"For what it's worth, I would like to see that someday."

"Large drinks with several tiny umbrellas?"

"No, _those_ I want to see yesterday, but you as a redhead, I wouldn't mind seeing. Someday. When you're ready." She smiled and then shouldered her pack and continued out of the ruined building.

* * *

A thousand thanks to Quinzelade who has been a tireless cheerleader, beta reader, and idea bouncer in the three months that I've been working on this story. It wouldn't look this good if not for her. She has written my absolute favorite SS/Paladin Danse story, By No Constraint. Go read it! You will not be disappointed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The mission was off to a bad start. Beatrice closed the door to the hotel behind them, then basked in the relative silence of the hotel lobby, aside from the drip and hiss of acid rainwater sluicing off their clothes and hitting the floor. Any bit of exposed skin itched and burned where it encountered the rain, but all she could do was shake it off. Rubbing her hands against her soaked jacket would be worse. They'd made it to Goodneighbor just as the skies opened up in one of the worst rad storms she'd ever seen—which, of course, wasn't saying much since she had only been out of the vault for three months.

The storm had also brought bitter cold wind with it—more like the winters from her childhood, and she shivered where she stood, wincing as a drop of stinging rainwater landed near her eye. She glanced around at the hotel interior, curious. Her only other time in Goodneighbor had been so short, she'd seen nothing but the little courtyard making up the main entrance. But this interior… it looked familiar to her. Perhaps it was just the general way all hotels tended to feel familiar—or perhaps it was just the constant sense of deja vu she had from overlapping pre-war memories on everything she saw. Deacon shook the rain off his fedora (he'd changed disguises halfway from HQ) and handed her caps for the room.

The manager, a small, middle-aged woman with a face puckered by irritation, eyed them as they approached.

"A room for the evening, please."

The manager almost threw the key across the desk at Beatrice as she put down the caps.

"Towels and bathroom access too," Deacon put in as Beatrice put her hand on the key. She fought to keep her face neutral. That was something she should have anticipated—things like towels and hot water weren't automatics in the Commonwealth, like they had been in her day.

"That's five caps more," the manager said, her voice bored. "You can pick up the towels here when you're ready to use them. Welcome to the Rexford. Enjoy your stay. Or don't. Whatever."

Beatrice froze. "What… what did you say?"

The manager glared at her. "The towels are down here, dumbass."

"No, I mean… did you say… is this Hotel Rexford?"

The manager scowled. "Lady, if you're high, I don't have the time. You didn't see the glowing letters on the front of the building?"

She and Deacon had been bent before the storm. She hadn't even been sure there was a door in front of them until Deacon had grabbed her hand and pulled her through it.

But she knew it was true. This was the Rexford. Had she completely forgotten how close to the Old State House their hotel was? The hotel she'd stayed at with Nate for their honeymoon.

The one she'd run away from.

* * *

 **Early 2077**

Beatrice Li—no, she corrected herself with a smile every newlywed should have—Beatrice _Huang_ was walking on air. Years of patience, of discipline, of being the good daughter had paid off. She laughed, remembering her choking sense of fear and frustration when her mother told her they would be seeking a traditional matchmaker now her schooling was nearly at an end.

 _An end of freedom,_ she had thought. _An end to myself._ And why? she wondered. Why go for an old Chinese tradition when she'd been raised so American she didn't even speak any Chinese? Her parents, though, _had_ been matched that way and apparently wanted their daughter to have at least some small part of their heritage, even if she'd missed out on everything else.

But the Chinese American community in Massachusetts was limited, and to her surprise, the matchmaker ended up introducing her to a man she'd already noticed at a Slocum's Joe when she'd met some friends for coffee: tall, broad-shouldered, a winning smile, and a crisp U.S. military uniform. Was there anything more calculated to win a girl's heart?

His name was Nathaniel Huang, a first generation immigrant, unlike herself. He had entered into the matchmaking process with kindness, humor, and a patience that exceeded anything she had been expecting in a partner. Especially one selected by the matchmaker; one that might be a traditional husband in the Chinese sense. _Yes,_ she'd thought with relief, _I think I could grow to love him._

And now, the fulfillment of those dreams. They were married; the ceremony and endless festivities were behind them. Family was behind them. They were on their way to a modest honeymoon in Boston. Alone. _Finally_.

Beatrice put her hand on Nate's as he engaged the shifter, just wanting to touch him—wanting to reassure herself that she was his and he was hers. Adults at last without Mother and Father to look over their shoulders. She almost shivered with giddiness. Never the outgoing type, and always mindful of her parents who thought law school a waste of time and money (her mother was a homemaker and very proud of it), Beatrice had shunned dates in college, burying herself in her studies, needing the best grades to show her dedication, to prove her parents wrong. And now at last patience and discipline were rewarded. She graduated with honors, she'd passed the bar, and… she was married.

Nate's smile looked strained. "Not while I'm driving, _xiao ke ai_."

 _Little cutie._ Beatrice barely spoke Chinese, though she appreciated how Nate occasionally used phrases like that, as much a part of his identity as her own. Her parents spoke very little Mandarin and even less of that had been transferred to Beatrice. Even before the war, anti-Chinese sentiment was high. When she'd been a teenager, she'd been grateful to not know any Mandarin, especially as worries about the internment camps rose within the Chinese American community. Sometimes she felt she had missed out on huge portion of her identity… but that was something to ponder on a different day. She was on her honeymoon. No time for unhappy thoughts.

The drive to Boston from their small town was a little boring, though Beatrice helped with the boring part by reading out loud in the car. Nate's education had been interrupted by war and rehabilitation from his injuries, so she'd been tutoring him for college credit. He never objected, like some men might, on the idea that his wife— _wife!_ —was smarter than he was, and might earn a good living without his help. He said he was proud of her, and she could tell he meant it. She was lucky to have snagged a man like him.

In the car, for some reason, he seemed tense. She wondered if he was just nervous about the night ahead of them—which was sweet. Though she'd sought to have some time alone when they were engaged, Nate was too much of a gentlemen to take advantage of her. So much so, she had often been a little frustrated with him. But both of their families were traditional when it came to gender roles, and they'd both had a strict upbringing. Perhaps Nate was just going to have a harder time shedding that than she was.

Finally, as afternoon shadows were growing long, they pulled into the parking lot of a large hotel next to the Old State House. A Slocum's Joe was also nearby, a large fiberglass donut on top of the diner.

"Look, Nate," she said, pointing out the window. "A reminder of where we first met. We can go there for breakfast tomorrow."

Nate was gripping the steering wheel, staring sightlessly out the windshield.

Beatrice sucked in a breath. Was he having another flashback? His PTSD sometimes acted up when he was stressed, and after a chaotic wedding, she shouldn't have been surprised.

"Nate? It's okay, we're here in the car, in Boston, at a hotel," she said in a calm voice, hoping to ground him. "We—"

"What?" He looked at her, eyes wide. "No, I'm fine. Let's go." He jumped out of the car like he was fleeing a rabid animal and slammed the door of his Chryslus Cherry Bomb, going to the trunk to get their luggage.

He had both of their bags in hand and was halfway to the hotel main entrance before Beatrice caught up with him. _Goodness, he's more eager than I_ , she thought, blushing.

The bellhop in the elevator with him prevented any displays of affection she might have wished to show him, but he was shy of displaying his feelings in public, she knew, so she contented with brushing his hand with the back of hers. His Adam's apple bobbed.

There were a dozen minute things that seemed to take forever as they finally arrived at their floor. The bellhop was a chatty fellow, talking about the latest news on the war front after seeing Nate's army duffel, then lingering in an obvious way for a tip.

"Darling, I'm going to go refresh myself," she said to Nate, taking her bag and escaping to the suite's exquisitely large bathroom. She fluffed her hair in the mirror and reapplied lipstick. Then—with a grin as she remembered her friend Maud's honeymoon advice—she changed into a delicate negligee she'd found in a discreet corner of the local Fallon's.

She cracked the bathroom door. "Is he gone?"

"Yes. Beatrice, I…"

She slipped out, knowing her face was probably as red as the negligee, but for once, not caring. She loved him. She didn't have to be afraid.

Nate was pacing in the small area near the door. He stopped when he saw her.

"Hi," she said, suddenly shy. "How about we—"

"Oh God," he said, voice breaking as he sank down onto a chair beside the armoire.

For the first time Beatrice felt uncertain. Something was very wrong here.

"Darling?" she said, hesitant. "If you're too tired, or nervous… it's okay, we can just go to dinner."

"No, it's not that," he said, still not looking at her. His hands were shoved up into his hair, his fedora askew. He took a deep breath and straightened, looking at the wall opposite. "I… I can't do this anymore. It's not fair."

"Do… do what? Nate, you're scaring me."

"I… I don't like women," he said, his voice stuttering, cracking over the words like ice in late February. "I prefer the… the company of men. My parents knew and… and they were ashamed," he choked, his eyes closing.

Beatrice's mind was spinning in a thousand directions, but she latched onto the word "prefer" and hung for dear life. "So…" she said, pressing her lips together, "you prefer men, but… but you like women too, right? I mean, I know it's possible to like both—"

"No." His voice cut through her words like a gunshot. He almost looked ill. "Only men. That's why the negotiations with the matchmaker went so smoothly. They thought they could _cure_ ," he half spat, half sobbed the word, "me by getting me married. I went along with it because I like you, and I thought… I thought if I had to be married, I'd rather it be you because we're friends and I thought maybe it won't be so bad, but it's just hit me know that this is forever and, I can't lie anymore. If I have to do it one more time, I think I'll throw up."

Beatrice swayed on her feet, the delicate lace negligee suddenly constrictive and far, far too revealing. She ran back into the bathroom, shaking, and closed the door.

"Beatrice!" Nate's voice on the outside of the door. She didn't answer, humiliation and shock sending shudders through her body so violent, she thought she might fall. She sat down very carefully on the cold marble floor, staring at a stray Nuka-Cola bottle cap under a dark corner of the sink the hotel Mr. Handy had obviously missed when cleaning.

How long she sat there staring at that cap, she didn't know. She only noticed when Nate stopped talking to her through the door, and she heard the hotel room door close a moment later.

As if that was her cue, Beatrice struggled out of the red monstrosity she was wearing and put on normal, sensible clothes: a blue everyday dress, and her handbag. Then she was out. Nate's duffel and her suitcase were still by the door, but she left the room, walking as fast as her legs would carry her, which was far. She was tall for a woman and she ate up the distance with satisfying speed. Outside the hotel, she hailed a cab.

"Where to?" asked the driver, and she blanked. Where was she going? Home? She had no home, not really. She was a married woman—her new home was with Nate. If she went back to her parents, if she told them… she inhaled a shuddering breath, squeezing her handbag. It wouldn't do to sob in front of this cab driver. Her handbag was harder than she remembered and she opened it, seeing the small Remington Derringer tucked inside that Nate had given to her for her birthday.

"Do you know where the nearest shooting range is?" she asked the cabbie.

"Yes, ma'am."

He pulled in at a place right under an advertisement for a family board game called Blast Radius, and she paid him. "Good place, this. Boston PD sometimes uses it, so it's safe and reputable," he said, giving her a quizzical look. She supposed he didn't often drop off Chinese women at shooting ranges, but she found that for perhaps the first time in her life, she didn't care what someone thought of her.

"Thanks," she said, and left the cab.

A middle-aged man in a wrinkled jacket and battered fedora was leaving as she walked up the steps and held the door for her.

"See ya later, Nicky. Tell Jenny I said 'hi'," said another man behind the counter as she walked in.

"Will do, Jim. Excuse me, miss," said the man at the door, touching the brim of his hat as he edged past her.

Fortunately, "Jim" behind the counter didn't question her right to be there other than a lift of the eyebrows. She was used to going to shooting ranges with Nate. Wanting to try to get to know him more as negotiations progressed with the matchmaker, she'd found out that he kept his army skills sharp and decided to join him. Surprisingly, she had enjoyed shooting—was good at it—and he'd gifted her the Derringer soon after.

Now, she snapped on ear protection, put her handbag under the counter in front of her, and loaded her gun.

 _Bang._ The little gun bucked in her hand but landed on the white of the target. She steadied her breath and her aim. _Bang_. Still in the white. She frowned. Time to reload.

"That's a terrible weapon for a lady," said a voice in the silence, muffled through her ear protection.

She turned and spotted a blond man in shirtsleeves and suspenders, also wearing ear protection in the cubicle next to hers. Normally this was a situation where she'd either pretend not to have heard or would make a quick excuse and leave the conversation. But her life was crumbling to pieces, so what the hell? She lowered her ear protectors.

"It does the job and it fits in my handbag," she said crisply. "Stick it against some mugger's ribs and he's not going to care if it's a 'terrible weapon for a lady'."

"True, but I think you're underestimating yourself," he said, and lowered his ear protection. "You're tall for a woman, so you need a slightly bigger weapon. That little Derringer is a disservice to hands like yours."

"Oh? And you think you have the right-sized weapon for me?"

His grin widened, and she blushed, suddenly aware of her unintended innuendo.

"Here, check out the guns I brought: a Detective Special, Smith & Wesson model 10, and a Carter Worth .38," he said, gesturing toward the three different pistols laid out in his cubicle. "I'm Rob." He stuck out his hand.

"Beatrice."

And suddenly it was natural conversation. She asked questions, he answered, was polite and interested without being overbearing and condescending. It was a welcome distraction from what had just happened at the hotel.

 _So many things make sense now,_ she thought, lowering one of the guns that Rob had lent her. _No wonder I thought Nate was such a gentleman…_

"Hey," Rob said, tapping her shoulder. She put the safety on the gun and put it down. His smile was a little nervous. "I know we just met an' all, but do you want to go grab a drink or something?"

And next thing she knew, she was in the back of Rob's car in the parking lot and he was kissing her the way she'd always wanted Nate to kiss her, his mouth eager but not bruising, his hands firm but not crushing. _This_ was what she had wanted in her honeymoon, this thrill, this pulsing desire…

This was wrong.

She tried to focus back on the kiss, but instead all she could see was Nate's red-rimmed eyes. He was her friend. Yes, he'd lied, but… didn't he deserve the honeymoon he wanted too?

She pulled away, Rob's breath hot on her cheek. "I'm sorry," she said, heart thudding against her ribs. "I have to go."

He swallowed. "So, uh, can we get that drink later? Rain check?"

She shook her head, double checking all her buttons, and edged toward the door. "I can't… I… I just got married this morning. I'm sorry, I can't explain. Thank you for the information about the guns. Good night."

She closed the car door gently on his stunned face, and hurried down the dark street until she saw a yellow cab and flagged it down.

She was afraid Nate would be gone when she got to the hotel, but upon her gentle tap at the room door, it swung open immediately to Nate's tear-stained face.

"I'm sorry I left," she said. "Can we talk?"

He nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."

* * *

A/N: Once again, thanks to Quinzelade for helping to smooth the wonky bits of this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.

"You okay?" Deacon's voice was low.

"Yes, sorry," she said, bending to grab the keys she'd dropped and hurrying toward the stairs. "I'm fine." She tripped on the first stair and had to grab for the railing.

"Of course," he said mildly, coming up behind her. "Fine people always stand staring into thin air for a good five minutes, completely not hearing their name said out loud several times."

She flushed. "It's just…" She bit her lip. This wasn't something she wanted to relive, wasn't eager to let the old humiliation and misery fill her to the brim again. Hadn't she been doing well since leaving the vault? Hadn't she been able to focus on finding Shaun and helping the Minutemen and the Railroad? She'd been able to forget for awhile what life with Nate had been like, to have that weight gone, to come into the sunshine after having walked through fog.

And Rob. Her flush deepened. She hadn't thought about him in months—well, 200 years really. Not since Shaun was born.

"I was here once," she said finally as they reached the landing and began another flight of stairs. "Before the war. I got… lost in the memory, that's all."

"Must be a hell of a memory," he said but didn't press her for details, for which she was grateful. "Did it have that attractive pile of rubble in the elevator shaft like it does now?"

She grinned weakly. "That's a fancy new addition, I think." Expelling a breath, she shook herself. "Sorry, that won't happen again. We've got a job to do, and I'll be focused, I promise."

She checked the key for the number and walked down the hallway to their room, only speaking again once they'd gone in and closed the door. "Do you think the tourist has left info in the dead drop already?"

Deacon slung his bag off his shoulders and bent down to rifle through it. "Hard to say. Dez seemed confident, but if I remember correctly, the tourist that lives here is a bit skittish and if she's got her, uh, package to look after, as well as a rad storm on top of that, I wouldn't be surprised if it was empty. But I could be wrong. You can stay here. I'm going to see if the rain has stopped and check the drop. Storm might even be a good cover to move a package, so maybe things will be in our favor."

He replaced his hat, added a trench coat that looked like he might have stolen it from Nick, and walked back out of the room.

Beatrice sat on the bed and inhaled slowly through her nose, breathing out through her mouth until she felt calmer. Fortunately, the room they were staying in wasn't the same one from her honeymoon. That might have been too much. Still… she glanced around, seeing the ravages of what would have been a cheaper room than the suite she and Nate had shared. Some faded scraps of wallpaper still clung to the walls, but other than that, everything was different.

Was that suite still here? Biting her lip, Beatrice left the room and walked to end of the hallway. The elevator bank was inoperable, but on the stairwell… She tried to walk up another flight but found the stairs to the next landing blocked by rubble and broken pieces of furniture. The little she could see above the pile looked mostly intact. Only some ceiling had fallen through, not any structural supports, which was good. Beatrice didn't want to have to sleep in this hotel and wake up with a building on top of her.

It was just as well. She'd told Deacon she would focus, and that's what she would do.

Walking back to the lobby, she borrowed a washrag off a maintenance worker who was too busy fixing a leaking pipe to do more than grunt and half throw the rag at her. She used it to wipe that last of the acid rain off her clothes and hat. There was some damage to the clothing but not terrible. Beatrice supposed the additional wear would just add to the disguise.

She was digging through her pack, wondering which disguise would be better to meet the tourist in when Deacon returned, shaking rain off his trench coat.

"Empty," he said when she looked at him questioningly. "I knew it was a long shot, but I still hoped…" He shook his head. "Well, can't have everything go to plan." He grabbed the rag she tossed him and used it to wipe off his hat.

"What happens when a tourist misses the dead drop?"

"We do our nails, gossip about the latest celebrity news, and play a friendly game of canasta."

"Besides that."

"Wait," he said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the coat rack in the corner. "Normally we'd shut it down, but I think the circumstances of this mission mean call for a grace period. There's a life on the line—I don't want to call it before we even get a chance to try. My gut says we still have this one."

"Any sign of the Triggermen?"

He shook his head. "No one's out in this storm. I saw maybe one of the neighborhood watch guys poke his head out of Old State House, but that was it." He sat down in the the chair against the wall, pushing up his sunglasses. "Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any back exit to this hotel. Or if there is, it's blocked by rubble. If things get hot and we need to leave here in disguise, we're going to have to change somewhere else. There's too many people lingering in the lobby buying chems or having a drink at the bar."

Beatrice frowned. "Where are you thinking?"

He hesitated, then looked up. "I have a bolthole not too far away. It's tiny, like my-feet-brush-the-wall-if-I-lay-down tiny, but it's well-hidden."

She nodded, appreciating the trust he'd just placed in her. "Well, with luck, the next time we check the dead drop it'll have our information and we won't have to use it." She crossed her legs where she was sitting on the mattress. "In the meantime, what do we do?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Beatrice tensed, expecting him to bring up the zone out she'd had earlier, but it wasn't like she could just run out of the room to avoid the question. "Sure."

Deacon fiddled with a loose thread on his jeans. "What was it like before the bombs? I mean… the posters and stuff make everything look so… glossy. Was it like that for real?"

Beatrice relaxed, then closed her eyes, remembering the smells of fresh-cut grass and coffee brewing; the gentle hum of Codsworth whirring around the house and the weatherman on the TV predicting great weather for sailing on the weekend.

She opened her eyes. "Where's the safest you ever felt?"

He sat back, hesitating, and she realized that she might have accidentally bumped up against a barrier he wasn't willing to cross.

"I mean," she amended before he could offer a lie, "have you ever felt so safe that you knew going to sleep without someone on watch was fine, that you would wake up and your life wouldn't be in danger, and none of your stuff would be stolen. That you could walk alone down the street without worrying about being attacked. That you could eat food or drink water without worrying about being sick. That you didn't need to walk around armed at all times."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, and cleared his throat. "None of the above? I mean, I've slept in some pretty safe places I guess. But… yeah. Threat's always there."

Beatrice nodded. "Safe," she said softly. "That's what the prewar world was like."

The answer was simplistic at best, and she knew it. She didn't mention internment camps full of Chinese Americans like herself; she didn't mention civil rights activists getting bombed or gunned down in their own houses, or the war that had injured and killed so many. The prewar era hadn't been safe, not really. But it had been safer in ways she hadn't really appreciated until waking up in the wasteland. The safety of knowing where your next meal would come from. The safety of being able to more or less trust your neighbors.

Perhaps it was a safety born of ignorance and naivety, but she still missed it.

It was why her work with the Minutemen and the Railroad meant so much to her. Nick had told her about the Commonwealth Provisional Government. Perhaps the Minutemen could help bring something like that back—a chance for normal people to have a little more safety in their lives.

"Well, since we have the time," Deacon said, rubbing his hands together, "Professor Deacon's gonna give you a pop quiz."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What in?"

"Spycraft. Can't do much in terms of practical exams..." He paused, grinning. "On the other hand—" He got off his chair and dug through his pack, his back hiding what he was doing. When he turned around with a triumphant smile, he was bearing two items: a pair of goggles, like she'd seen Sturges wear when welding, and a red Juliette style hat that almost made her gasp with delight. It even had beading along the edge.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, wide eyed.

"We have a stash of disguises in HQ. I know you've seen them."

"Yes, but I've never seen this…" She reached out a finger. It was stiff—ballistic weaving? But just looking at it made some of the musty furniture around her fade away. She shook herself. "Okay, what's the quiz?"

"These are part of the two disguises I brought for you on this op in case the mission called for it," he said, sitting the goggles and hat on the bed beside her.

"You brought disguises _for_ me? Deacon, you should have told me. I would have brought more if you'd said something."

He put his hands up in defense. "I know, I know, but to be honest, I thought this would be an easy in-and-out mission. I didn't think you'd need them."

She sat back, disgruntled, but let him continue.

"I want you to create two different fleshed out personas for them."

"How fleshed out?"

"Enough to answer a few casual questions from someone who wants to know who the stranger is." He shrugged. "You'll want to be able to roll with whatever gets thrown at you, as the persona you're currently wearing. You're kind of well known already—well, at least among the farm gossips—so you probably won't need closet full of these like I have, but it's a good idea to have one or two in your pocket for Railroad ops like this."

She picked up the hat, running her fingers over it. She hadn't expected designs like this to still exist in the Wasteland, and she could tell it was handmade. The stitching on the seams wasn't machine-even, though it was very well done.

"Most of my work, as you've seen already, is really accumulating knowledge from other sources, but I think you might be covered there. As Minutemen General, you can call on a lot of data if you needed to." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Okay, enough stalling. Let's hear 'em."

"You haven't given me much time!"

He shrugged, still smiling. "It's a pop quiz."

Beatrice pursed her lips, trying not to be aware of the steady regard of her partner, and examined the two items. The goggles had leather straps that were smooth and well worn with time and other people's sweat, making the leather supple, but still with many years of use left if it was taken care of. These were for protecting eyes… important in a job that might have you messing with 200 year old equipment.

"Sue," she said slowly "The girl who wears these is named Sue. She comes from… from Abernathy Farms, but wanted to be down in the city closer to the action. More fun working on city stuff than fixing plows on a farm. She likes fixing things; seeing how things work, and making them do what they were meant to do." She glanced up to find Deacon nodding.

"Not bad, Whisp. But you made one error."

"Where?"

"Saying she's from Abernathy Farms. The settlement gossip chain being what it is, a determined snoop could easily find out that part of your story isn't true. Best to be vague when saying where you're from: 'I'm from near Abernathy Farms.' That way you don't commit. Otherwise, good work. Not too vague, and not too specific: I like it." He took out a pocket watch to check the time. "Let's take a break."

"From the quiz?"

"I'm the cool teacher everyone likes." He stood and stretched. "I might take a nap. If this storm goes any longer, then we might be up late." He flopped down onto the couch next to the wall, raising a cloud of dust and folded his arms under his head.

"Go ahead," she said. "I'm going to think of the girl who wears this." She touched the red hat."Cheating while the professor sleeps," he said with a thumbs up. "I like it."

She threw one of the pillows from the bed at him. He caught it and stuffed it under his head. "It's not cheating to _think_."

"Hey, I'm the professor here. I make the rules!"

She shook her head at him and turned back to the hat.

Within minutes, Deacon's breathing evened out, and she found herself watching him instead of building the new persona she'd already tentatively named Nancy. He hadn't used to sleep in front of her. For the first month of their partnership, he'd always volunteered for first watch, unless they were in a settlement that already had a night watch. But they'd turned a corner not too long ago. She hoped that meant better things to come from their partnership; she'd already begun to rely on his friendship more than she had anticipated.

He snorted in his sleep and flopped over, his t-shirt riding up a bit to show pale skin. Deacon was a sloppy sleeper, and she couldn't help but smile. There was no other word for the way his frame seemed to come loose in true relaxation, limbs akimbo like he was looking for something to hold onto.

Or someone.

Heat rushed into her face, making the somewhat cool room feel suddenly stifling. That had… No. That was nothing. A slip of the mind. That's all. People thought silly things all the time and didn't mean them.

Perhaps she'd dig for her Pip-Boy and play some more Grognak and the Ruby Ruins. Just to avoid accidentally looking at Deacon and prompting any more… thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Beatrice tugged on the strap to her stained coveralls; the buckle kept slipping, threatening to come loose every ten steps. The toolbox she carried jostled against her leg, the tools inside clanging against the metal as she walked.

"I suppose I should have checked to see if that actually fit you," Deacon mused, sidestepping a puddle that made both of their Geiger counters give an ominous tick.

"I told you you should have warned me," she grumbled but good-naturedly. She was happy to be out of the Rexford and its troubling memories. The rad storm had cleared out two hours after their arrival, leaving a foul-smelling fog in the air and some lingering radiation. She supposed she and Deacon would have to split a bag of RadAway if they had to be out all night.

They'd waited another hour after the rain stopped to give the tourist time to move, eating mole rat jerky and a few pieces of mutfruit from their packs for dinner. Now the skies above Goodneighbor's wet streets succumbed to the darkness of the night rather than the storm. A few people were out and about, most heading toward the Third Rail for after-dinner drinks while she and Deacon ambled toward the dead drop.

"Will we have to call it if the drop is empty again?" She didn't want to; the thought of G3-13 somewhere in Goodneighbor too scared to leave made her want to protect the synth at all costs. But they couldn't linger in Goodneighbor forever either.

"Let's think of that only if we have to." He bumped her shoulder in a comforting way, and she had to duck her head to hide a blush and a smile.

That might be a bad sign, if she thought enough about it.

Which she didn't.

"Hey, doll," leered a Neighborhood Watch ghoul. "I could use some fixin' up, if ya know what I mean."

Beatrice froze, but could see Deacon watching for her reaction. This was her first experience using a persona out in the field.

She expelled a breath, then turned, and propped a hand on her hip. "Really? Coveralls is what does it for you?"

The ghoul shrugged, his grin wide. "A man gets lonely. 'Sides, I like a dame who's good with her hands."

"That's a little better, but I got a partner already and we're late for a job, right Jim?"

Deacon reached up to scratch under his newsboy cap as if considering the matter. "If'n ya'll want to talk to the nice man, Sue, don't much matter to me," he said in a drawl that was pure Alabama.

 _How in the world does he know what southerners sound like?_ She wondered, giving him a glare. He grinned.

"But yeah," he said, relenting, "we do gots a job. Come on, Sue. Nice work," he added, _sotto voce_ as they left the Watch's catcall behind.

They strolled to the alley near the Rex. Beatrice took watch at the entrance, pretending to examine an old utility meter on the wall, while Deacon counted bricks until he found the loose one.

"Damnit," she heard him mutter.

Beatrice stared unseeing at the utility box. "It's empty."

"Empty as Carrington's heart."

"What now?"

"Toss me that tape stuff, Sue," Deacon said, his voice slow as syrup again.

The skin on the back of her neck crawled as she bent to her toolbox, using the new angle to take a glance at what had spooked Deacon. Two Triggermen—one ghoul and one human—were walking toward them from the other end of their alley, though they didn't seem to be looking at Deacon and Beatrice. They were talking to each other, not paying much attention to their surroundings. Beatrice withdrew the duct tape and Deliverer from the toolbox, tucking the gun into her coverall's deep pocket. Out of sight, but handy if the gangsters were looking for trouble.

"… I saw her, plain as day—she was wearing a white jumpsuit, like something out of a comic book. That was outside the barricades—and didn't think more about it cause those raiders were getting too close. Then I see the same girl here before the storm, wearing normal clothes. Somethin' ain't right."

"We can't just snatch every dame that looks at you funny," said the ghoul in a dry rasp. "There'd be no more girls left in Goodneighbor."

"Very funny. I know what I saw. I know it was the same girl. Or _not_ a girl, if you get my drift."

The ghoul sighed. "Look, if you see her again, we'll talk to her, eh? Find out if she's the real deal."

"Yeah, okay. Couldn't have gone anywhere in the storm… probably still here..."

Deacon wrapped a piece of tape around a pipe and tossed it back to Beatrice.

"Outta the way," grumbled the human as they approached Beatrice and Deacon, shoving her partner aside hard enough that he had to lean against the brick wall to avoid being flattened against it.

Beatrice glared at her feet, but kept her mouth shut. Being noticed was the last thing they needed.

The Triggermen left the alley to whatever other shady doings they had going on. Deacon and Beatrice exchanged a glance.

"They don't have her yet," Beatrice breathed. "There's still a chance. Why would the tourist miss the dead drop?"

Deacon shook his head. "No idea. But I think I know how to find out."

#

"This was the other disguise you brought?" Beatrice stared at the red dress laid out on the mattress in their Rexford room. It looked like a replica of a Chanel number, the kind of dress she would have ached for before the war, something she would have spent too much money on and then felt inevitably guilty about. "I thought you said you weren't doing drag on this mission?"

"It's not for me," he said, grinning.

She blinked. "For… me?" Her hands were so grimy she didn't even want to touch it.

"Of course! The Third Rail is the secondary meeting location here in Goodneighbor. The tourist here really has a thing for bourbon, so short of knocking on every door, it's our best bet to find her and get this mission back on track. We should show up tonight dressed for an evening out, since it's late." Deacon dug through his pack and extracted a pair of cufflinks. "A gentleman and lady out on the town, nothing more respectable than that. No Neighborhood Watch or Triggerman will notice us—one more couple among others." There was a wink in his voice, though his eyes were, as ever, obscured by the sunglasses. "I can tone down this devilishly handsome thing I got going, you know."

She grinned at that, but had no witty rebuttal since she did think he was good looking. Not handsome perhaps, in the way Nate had been—high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. To stand out in Deacon's line of work would be counter to his purposes, but he easy to look at, and his smile—the real ones—felt like coming home.

 _Uh oh,_ she thought, her stomach fluttering. _That wasn't just a random, easy-to-ignore thought. When did that happen?_ She thought, startled at herself. They'd only been partners, what, for three months? But had been three months of hard labor, of close calls and shoot outs, and hiding in a crumbling closet as much of them hidden under a single stealth boy as possible as an assaultron hunted for them. Three months of getting her trained in stealth and espionage while saving lives of settler and synth alike. It had been three months of him backing her up when she chased down leads on the Institute, on anything that might take her a step closer to Shaun.

The rest of the Railroad was a little nervous about her son. She could tell they wondered if she was really committed or if she was only there to use them to achieve her own ends and then skedaddle. But Deacon never acted like that. Except for maybe Nick Valentine, she trusted Deacon more than anyone else in the Wasteland, and it was a hardwon trust after getting used to the way he built lies to both shield himself and lash out at anyone he thought might pose a threat to his carefully constructed reality.

Deacon waved his hand in front of her face, and she jumped. "You tired, Whisp? Need to get a nap in before the op?" He sounded concerned, as well he might be. She'd told him she'd focus, and here she was woolgathering again.

Beatrice fought the blush but it won, so ducked her head, pretending to straighten the skirt. "No, I'm good. Just thinking about tonight."

Deacon nodded. "Alright. I'm going to see if the hotel handyman has anything resembling shoe polish. Be back in a few."

Beatrice took the dress, the little red hat that went with it, and a few toiletries, and went downstairs to get towels for the common use bathroom that the manager had mentioned when they first arrived. She also dipped a deeper into her personal stash of caps for a little extra time and more hot water. For the first time since she'd come out of the Vault, she shaved her legs. It felt strange and comforting in a way: a mundane task she had found an annoying necessity before the war, but had faded to unimportance when survival was all you thought about. Few other women shaved in the Commonwealth. Glory had laughed at her when she described the time-consuming beautifying rituals she had to go through to get ready for a night out. But for tonight's disguise, it felt like the right move.

The dress fit like a dream: cinched at the waist and a skirt with enough swish that it begged to be danced in. The inside had the telltale matting of ballistic weave, but on the outside, it was a stunning red: the kind of color she hadn't thought existed in this world anymore; the Chinese color of happiness. Her hair was harder to manage: no curlers, no curling iron, and no product. She managed, instead, a classic twist and with some teasing and a lot of bobby pins, managed to get her hair up off her neck a way that looked acceptable for a night out. Codsworth would have been able to do a better job, but here at least the lighting would be dim and with luck, by the time her hair started to sag, they would hopefully have their answer about the mission from the tourist and it wouldn't matter anyway.

The little Juliette hat sat on top, almost sculpted to her head. She wondered who'd she have to bribe at HQ to be able to keep it.

She felt different as she added the finishing touches to the costume, pulling on pre-war pumps, and putting Deliverer in a holster on her thigh, which a cleverly concealed slit hidden among the folds in her dress would allow her to access if she had to. She felt like old pre-war Beatrice—pre-pregnancy Beatrice who used to go out with Nate to the clubs in Boston. This was fake, of course. That Beatrice… well, perhaps she hadn't died, but she wasn't useful in this new world. That first week after coming out of the vault, she'd taken that Beatrice, and folded her up, gently, sadly, like a widow putting a wedding dress away into a chest at the back of a closet. Right now, though? She felt that old person rising up slowly inside her, like a diver surfacing from the deep ocean. Her chin lifted, her lips curling into a secretive smile, her shoulders came back, and her toes began to tap out the rhythm to Atom Bomb Baby playing somewhere in the background. It wouldn't last, of course; this was just tonight, to save a life, but Cinderella knew it was one night too, and she still had fun. No readon to let a nice pair of glass slippers go to waste, after all.

When she got back to the room, Deacon was adjusting his black tie in the cloudy, cracked mirror. He'd gone all out too: a crisp, white dinner jacket over black trousers, she could see a wig under the hat, silver cufflinks at his wrists, and—she gave a sniff—was he wearing cologne? Where did he get that?

"You done? I was going to ask for your name tonight. We never did finish the quiz…" He turned around and his words faded, his mouth curling in a genuine smile as he saw her in the doorway. She waited for the witty one-liner, but he just stood there staring, so she walked in, feeling positively sultry as her skirt swished around her legs.

"It's Nancy. Nancy Wake."

"Miss Wake, the pleasure is all mine," he said, grasping her hand and pressing a kiss to her tops of her fingers now curled over his. It was a light kiss, correct in form and didn't linger, but Beatrice found her breath suddenly short.

"I'm Joseph McNamara. Call me Joey, Miss Wake."

"Nancy," she said with a smile, "or you might give the other fellas the idea we're not exclusive."

"Exclusive, hmm?"

Beatrice took a step forward until he was close enough to touch, and ran her fingers under the edge of his collar, feeling the heat of him against her fingers.

"You always forget to check your collar, Joey," she tsked, smoothing her hands down the fabric and flicking away a piece of fuzz. "There. Ready?"

"Always," he said, a little swagger in his voice. He tugged her forward, so they stood in front of the mirror together. "Not bad for a pair of shady miscreants like ourselves."

The mirror was cracked and spotted; nearly impossible to use for its intended purpose, but looking at them side by side, dressed to the nines made her realize something she'd wished she thought of before agreeing to the mission. The illusion vanished. Cinderella had left the ball, now she was just a 200 year old woman playing in a dress she had no business wearing.

"Deacon... I don't think I can do this."

He turned to look at her, frowning. "What's wrong, Whisp? It's not like you to back out of an op."

She swallowed. "I'll stand out too much—we can't have people looking at us, noticing us; remembering us."

He grinned. "You do stand out, but I don't think that's a bad thing."

She blushed, but he still wasn't getting it.

"I'm Chinese," she pressed. It was a galling admission, after she'd spent so much time insisting "I'm American" at every bigot that dared to ask her where she was from. But the truth was there, even in that faded mirror. How could she have thought to be part of an undercover mission?

His face cleared, and he put his hands on her shoulders, her heart giving a little stutter of surprise. "I hate to be all 'wise old Wastelander' on you, Whisp, but… people don't care." He paused to let that sink in. "I know a fair bit of pre-War lore, and there was some bad blood between us and China, right? I mean, it's obvious because, well, _bombs_ , but even before then."

"It's… it was bad," she said, throat dry. "My parents never talked about it, but they got stopped by police a lot. They would search the car, saying that a car of that description had been wanted in suspicion of a drug bust or any stupid trumped up charge. Nate and I… well, it wasn't any easier. When we were looking for a place to live, several realtors walked out on us as soon as they saw us." She was rambling and stopped herself and got to the point. "There were these… camps. Internment centers. They locked innocent Chinese American citizens up like criminals; like animals. We had to be careful all the time, or we knew where we would end up."

"Shit," Deacon said, his ginger eyebrows high behind his sunglasses. "No wonder your nerves caught up with you." He squeezed her shoulders. "This is a thrilling experience to be the voice of reason here, but trust me: people don't care about that now. Today, it's simpler: synth or not? Ghoul or not? Though with the right people, even those lines aren't as solid as they could be. You only have to look around in Goodneighbor to see folks here have no problem with ghouls." He lifted his hands from her shoulders, as if just remembering they were still there. "I know this is still fresh for you, but do what I do and don't give a flying mole rat's ass about what other people think."

That surprised a laugh out of her.

"Now," he said in a brisk tone, his accent going a little more Boston, "let's say you and I go show these plebs how to live it up, yeah?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

They sauntered out of the hotel arm in arm. Deacon kept up a running prattle of idle conversation to help her get back in character, but she'd pulled on the metaphorical glass slippers again—his confidence shoring hers up like scaffolding as they walked the night streets. It was already late, so the Third Rail was buzzing when they made their way past the tuxedo-clad bouncer. A dark-haired singer was crooning in the corner as Deacon snagged them a table.

"What'll be, baby?" he asked, leaning over as she sat.

"Surprise me," she said smiling up into his face.

He spun away to the bar and she turned toward the singer as if enthralled with the music, but really observing the crowd. Deacon had chosen wisely: their table was near the back of the subway station. They could see most of the room from here. She didn't know this tourist except that she was "skittish" and liked bourbon. Scanning the crowd, she didn't see any faces that looked out of place: just a lot of people tired from a hard day, looking to blow off steam, hoping to have a little fun. Deacon had been right; no one was looking at her. Well, that wasn't entirely true: she was getting a few double takes from a man across the room and the ghoul next to him, who kept elbowing his friend in the ribs and grinning. But it was a far cry from the stares she remembered as the war was really heating up: accusing, angry, scandalized.

The last of her tension melted away, and Beatrice's Cinderella mask slipped snugly into place. This persona, this Nancy Wake, felt easier than Sue had been—perhaps it was the prewar ambiance of the dress and the bar.

"Happy anniversary, Nancy," said Deacon, returning to the table with two bowl-sized glowing blue drinks… each with at least five small umbrellas sticking out of each glass. He caught her eye and grinned, one eyebrow rising in challenge as her lips trembled with the effort to hold in a laugh. Oh he wanted to play, did he?

"Oh Joey, that's so expensive! You shouldn't have!" She exclaimed, then tripped her fingers up his tie, pulling him to her, so she could say in his ear. "Guess I'll have to give you your present later."

Just as she spoke, the singer's song ended, and her voice rang out in the relative silence of the bar.

"Let me know if he don't treat you right, sweetheart," called out a ghoul from the bar, "I'll be more than happy to take his place."

Chuckles around them broke the tension. Beatrice was tempted to sit down and never look up again, but her mother wasn't around to be scandalized, and Nancy Wake would never flee out of embarrassment. She leaned in closer to Deacon, hearing a few catcalls, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Deacon inhaled sharply, his throat bobbing, and she let go of his tie, sitting down at the table to sip at her drink.

Had she really just done that? Her stomach swooped with giddiness like she hadn't felt since her mother had announced the marriage negotiations with Nate's family.

Deacon sat a second after she did, tipping the brim of his fedora back with a finger. "Damn, Nancy. I'll get you all the glowy blue drinks you want if it means a thank you like that."

Beatrice smiled at him, and realized that it was genuine smile; no Nancy Wake mask needed. She was having _fun_. Even on the rare occasions where she and Nate hadn't gotten more than a few stares, it was hard to really let loose at a club. Nate was polite and kind to her, of course—they were friends before they had been married—but inevitably, he would clock out of conversations, his gaze drifting until it met the gaze of another man. How they had found each other, Beatrice never knew. Did they leave notes? Or was it through the mail disguised as letters of business? She never knew his name—her husband's lover—she didn't want to, as if the absence of that knowledge would make her shame and misery less real. But he was always there, always waiting to meet with her husband while she sat at a table staring at her plate, trying not to cry, because crying invited questions and she was supposed to be a blissful newlywed.

She'd tried to avoid going out, wanting the time to apply to more law firms, but Nate couldn't go by himself. He had to have her with him, he insisted. Someone would find out; someone would tell their parents, and they would never recover from the shame. She'd only endured that for two months of their marriage before insisting they try for a child. A child, she thought, would solve her problems. Nate would have his lover; she would have a baby.

The procedure at the local fertility clinic had been lonely and painful, and Beatrice had wanted to laugh with a hysterical edge that she was the first virgin since Mary to get pregnant. Pregnancy, at last, was an excuse she could leverage to stay home. Both her parents and his had been so happy, so proud. And Nate… did he love her at all? Even as a friend? Looking back, it was hard to say. He always the first to apologize after they fought; had made sure their home didn't lack for any modern convenience; had even agreed to the procedure to have Shaun without arguing.

He had his lover; and she had her baby, and they both had been deeply unhappy.

Deacon's hand slid across the table touching her hand.

"You're far away, Nance. Where's my best girl gone to?"

Beatrice smiled again. "I'm right here, Joey. And I'm so very happy." She turned her hand so that her fingers rested on his. Perhaps Nate would have made the better choice for surviving in this new Commonwealth. He had the military training—he was a decorated vet for crying out loud. But for the first time, looking at the man across the table from her, she felt like she belonged somewhere. She knew she still had much to learn, but no longer did she feel like Cinderella in rags while everyone else dressed in silks. Shaun was in the Institute and when she found him, she would help him learn too, like Deacon had helped her. They would be a family again.

"She's here," Deacon breathed. "I'm going to make contact."

Beatrice managed to angle herself so she could see where he went out of the corner of her eye. A twitchy looking ghoul with gray hair and a wrinkled suit stood next to an old newspaper machine, smoking. As she watched, Deacon strode up, hand out. The ghoul flinched but then nodded, and shook out a cigarette for him.

Beatrice went to the bar and ordered a little food, so she could see them more clearly as she walked back to the table, and so she would have more than alcohol in her stomach if they had to run the mission tonight. As she was returning to the table, Deacon met her with a smile and pulled her in close by her waist, nuzzling her neck, his breath hot on her jaw.

"Job's tonight," he whispered, his lips feather light under her ear. "We'll stay another hour, then pretend you've had too much and I'll take you home. We'll meet the tourist and package in an alley."

Heart thudding hard enough to shake the substation, Beatrice giggled loudly. "Not here, Joey. We gotta eat first. You promised me a night out."

"All right, all right," he said, and they sat down to eat and continue the evening, though Beatrice felt so warm that even the chill dampness of the Third Rail did little to cool her down. _What is wrong with you?_ She scolded herself. _A synth's life is in danger and all you can think about how you wish this was real and not an act? Grow up._

Feeling a little shamed by her reaction and bolstered by the reminder of their real mission, Beatrice fell back into Nancy Wake's role and kept up a quiet chatter with "Joey" as the night went on

At Deacon's signal, Beatrice stood as if to use the restroom and pretended to almost fall over.

"All right, baby, time for some shut eye," Deacon said. "We gotta make sure you get home safe."

"Ah, Joey, you always take good care of me."

"Only for my best girl," he said, chucking her under the chin with a curled finger.

They wobbled out of the Third Rail, Beatrice laughing at nothing and making sure to lean heavily on Deacon as if she was having trouble walking, and it worked. Neighborhood Watch eyes slid past them like they weren't there.

"I don't feel so good," she said on cue.

"Let's get you over here to rest for a bit," Deacon said, guiding her to the mouth of the alley, arm around her waist. The alley was like many in Goodneighbor with a hook at the end that went around a building, so that anyone looking in the way Beatrice and Deacon came would only see the back of another brick wall. Glancing back, Beatrice couldn't see anyone watching, so they advanced to the end.

Beatrice put her hand through the slit at her side, loosening Deliverer in its holster in case she would need to draw it quickly. The twists and turns of Goodneighbor weren't always safe, even if they were the designated meeting place for a package transfer. Deacon stopped and she peered ahead, seeing in the deeper shadows a pair of figures dressed in typical wastelander fashion.

"Hey friend," Deacon said in a friendly voice, "do you have a Geiger counter?"

"Mine is in the shop," said one of the figures in a raspy ghoul's voice. "This is…"

"I'm designated G3… I mean… Donna. My name's Donna," said a new voice. "Are… are you here to help me leave?"

"Yes," Beactrice said. "We're going to sneak you out and get you to a safe house."

"Now, let's—" Deacon started to say, then Beatrice clamped a hand on his arm. Voices were coming toward the alley.

"I saw someone go in."

"Probably someone taking a piss. Jeez. You sure you ain't been on jet? Cause you're paranoid as hell."

"Who goes into an alley all sneaky like to take a piss, huh? And two people at once?"

"Did you get a good look at 'em?"

"No, but I'm gonna."

As a shadow moved at the mouth of the alley, Deacon grabbed Beatrice, pressing her against the brick wall.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered.

"Yes," she breathed, and then his mouth was on hers, urgent and hot. She stiffened, lips unmoving, and had a half a second of sheer humiliation before warmth spread through her, melting the tension in her body, and then she pressed against him, returning the kiss with a fervor she'd never felt before. Deacon made a small sound in his throat, and suddenly she was being kissed as if she were fresh water and he was dying of thirst. One of his hands drifted into her coiled hair, the other pulled on her waist, bringing them yet closer. Beatrice cradled his head in her hands, stubble rasping against her skin, and her heart hammered in her chest like it was on a blacksmith's anvil.

"Ha!" laughed a raspy, ghoulish voice. "See? What I'd tell ya?"

She and Deacon slowly separated, and she had time to see a flash of ginger eyelashes before he hitched the sunglasses back up and adjusted his fedora to stare at the two men standing a few feet away. "You knuckleheads have a good reason for walkin' in on me and my girl?"

The Triggermen were close enough that Beatrice could see the dim outlines of their faces—the human looked grumpy, the ghoul, gleeful.

"Nah, just having some fun… though not as much fun as you, friend." The ghoul winked at Beatrice and they walked away, the ghoul still chuckling.

Deacon gave a soft sigh of relief as two men get out of earshot, then glanced down to where Beatrice's fingers still clung to his jacket.

She let go with a blush hot enough to set dry tinder aflame, grateful for the night sky and Deacon's ever-present sunglasses. He took off the jacket, turning it inside out to become a coat that had more patches than original cloth and yanked off the tie, stuffing into a pocket. The fedora flattened to a slightly different shape, and he pulled it closer over his eyes, lighting a cigarette to dangle from his lips. A hunch to his shoulders, and slightly different walk, and the suave Joey McNamara disappeared, replaced by one of the usual drifters in Goodneighbor.

"I'm going to tail them a bit and make sure they don't come back this way," he said to Beatrice. "I'll give a signal when it's safe to move."  
He started to move past her, and she had the ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him, to reassure herself that what just happened had actually happened. But that was putting the wrong perspective on things. They'd saved the op—whatever she felt… no, it couldn't happen. Why would she even think that maybe, just maybe, she and Deacon could be more than what they were?

Was she falling for Deacon? Deacon, whose eyes she'd never seen; Deacon, who had lied to her about being a synth; whose face he wore wasn't the one he was born with?

But he was the same Deacon who calmed down H2-22's panic with a long, funny story, helping the synth get his mind off the battle they'd lived through; Deacon, who'd shared his last can of water with a wastelander they'd found sitting despondent against a tree; Deacon, who'd taken the shaken, scared prewar Beatrice and made her realize her new life wasn't just something to be endured, but could also be enjoyed.

As she watched his figure retreat away from the alley, she reflected that really, all told, she could have picked a worst person to fall for.

They escorted Donna from the area a quarter of an hour later. The two Triggermen had gone to the Third Rail, so Deacon reported when he returned, and they were able to get the synth out without any further trouble, leaving the relieved tourist behind in Goodneighbor. Beatrice led the way, Deacon bringing up the rear with Donna in between, keeping an eye out for raiders, ferals, or any of the other wasteland nasties that liked to creep through the ruined streets. They didn't have too far to go; just a few hours walk across the river to Mercer Safehouse at the Minutemen settlement at Taffington Boathouse where Donna would be escorted by a different agent to… wherever it was she would start her new life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Deacon and Beatrice watched as Donna's figure retreated down the road.

"Nothing like that feeling," Deacon said in a soft voice. "We did good tonight."

"Thank you," she said.

Deacon cocked his head. "I know I'm generally a wonderful person and all, but what did I do specifically to earn your thanks?"

"Showing me this," Beatrice said, gesturing toward Donna's fading shape in the distance. "When I first approached the Railroad…" She hesitated.

"We were a means to an end?"

Beatrice puffed out an exasperated breath. "Of _course_ you know that. Why wouldn't you?" She smiled to take the sting out of the words. "Yes. Preston and the others told me to go to Diamond City, and once I got there, people said I should talk to Nick. But Nick was gone on a case, and his secretary didn't know when he'd be back. I sat down right outside his office, wanting to scream with frustration. I had worked so hard to get to Diamond City, and everywhere I turned, a wall; a closed door. But I overheard some people nearby talking about the Railroad, how they were the only ones brave enough to stand against the Institute."

Deacon took a cigarette from his pocket, but paused in the act of lighting it at her wrinkled nose. "But you didn't know at the time your son had been taken by the Institute."

"No, but Piper had mentioned it as a possibility, and so had anyone else I talked to—like a dark cloud hanging over everyone's head: the Institute takes people. Why _wouldn't_ it be them who'd taken Shaun? So I thought: if Nick can't help me, maybe the Railroad could?" Beatrice turned to face him fully. "The Minutemen give me hope for the future, but the Railroad taught me to fight for it."

Deacon fiddled with his lighter for a moment. "Then," he said in a somber voice, "I guess there's nothing left to teach you, Agent Whisper."  
Beatrice stared at him, her heart giving an anxious flutter.

"I mean, your undercover work as Miss Nancy Wake was top notch. I guess you could say that you passed the quiz with flying colors." He paused and her stomach seemed determined to climb to her throat at the memory of his kiss. _Fake kiss,_ she told herself sternly. "And now at the conclusion of a successful mission, I guess I can go back to HQ and tell Dez you've graduated, and I can go back to doing my own thing."

Beatrice swallowed, hard. She didn't want him to leave—the wasteland seemed brighter, friendlier when he was around. Then she noticed the corner of his eye peeking at her from behind his sunglasses and her jaw dropped.

"You _ass_." She smacked his shoulder as he laughed.

"Really had you going that time, didn't I?" He said with a wide grin. "Wow, you really thought you were ready to graduate?" He waggled an admonishing finger at her. "Young lady, a crack shot you may be, a wonder in a red dress for sure, but have you forgotten how bad you were at sneaking into that old electronics store?"

"We got the security bots turned off!" Beatrice protested. "Eventually."

"Ah, Whisp," he said in a jovial voice, slinging an arm around her neck, "my young apprentice. You have so much to learn."

She snorted. "Yeah, Old Man Deacon. Going to yell at the kids to get off your lawn next?"

"The thought's crossed my mind," he said easily. "You know, I'm a lot older than you think I am."

"I doubt that."

"Well, after our success… I think I can let you in on the big secret." He pulled her a little closer, lowering his voice. "Everyone thinks that Desdemona is the big boss. She calls the ops, gives the ra-ra speeches. But it's just an act. She does what I tell her to because the Railroad's my show. It's been that way since I founded it."

Beatrice stared at him, eyes narrowed. "You founded the Railroad?"

"Sure. Me and Johnny D and Watts. Hell, that was 60? 70 years ago? After awhile you lose count."

"Which makes you, what, 80 years old at least?" Beatrice shook her head. "You're slipping, Dee. I know that's a lie."

"Fine, you got me," he said with a laugh. "What gave it away this time?"

Beatrice tapped the hand that was still slung over her shoulder. "Your hands."

Deacon took his arm back and stared at his hands, frowning like they'd betrayed him. "My hands?"

"Hands show age as much as faces do, and facial surgery is expensive enough without adding the rest of the body into the mix. Plus, I asked around at HQ if your month as a ghoul included the rest of you and everyone said the same thing: you wore gloves and long sleeves the whole time."

"Well, well. Look who's Miss Detective. Old Nick better watch out for you."

They paused at a bench overlooking the water just above the Boathouse and sat down. Deacon propped his feet up on the close stone wall and locked his hands behind his head. For a moment, they sat in silence, watching the silvery ripples of the river reflecting the moonlight and the warm light of the oil lamp on the porch of the house that was facing where they were sitting.

"I told you that one for a reason," he said after a few minutes had passed. "You're going to hear the same sort of lies elsewhere. From groups; institutions: other organizations out there. And, in time, I'm sure they're going to spoon-feed you their own patented form of bullshit."

Beatrice noticed the blue Minutemen flag hanging off the house to their right, just above the oil lamp, and the way Deacon was studiously avoiding looking at it.

"Are you kidding me right now, Deacon? You think the Minutemen are bullshitters?"

"All I'm saying is that you have to ignore the verbage—ignore the 'ra ra'—and look at what they're doing. What they're asking you to do. What sort of world they'd have you build and how they're going to pay for it."

Beatrice blew out a breath, trying to control her anger. Getting defensive wasn't going to help anything. "Why are you bringing this up? You think I don't know that institutions lie? I'm pre-war, but I'm not naive."

He shrugged, his posture conveying nothing but nonchalance. "I think they've been taking advantage of you, is all. Anyone that meets you can see you're something special. I have no doubt your chum Preston all but leaped at the chance to get you to take care of his problems."

"That's not fair," Beatrice protested, face warming. "You don't know Preston or what happened at Quincy. He was escorting wounded civilians; elderly and at least one with severe PTSD. He was doing the best he could in a survival situation. Being General is mostly ceremonial. Preston does a lot of the people work now they aren't just trying to escape raiders."

"But who clears out these settlement spots, huh? Who's the problem solver? That'd be you." He poked her shoulder. "'General there's a settlement that needs help!'," he said in a mocking announcer voice. "'General, you're the only one who can herd this escaped cat!' 'General, the toilet's clogged again!'"

"That's not—"

"And what have they said about the Institute and your boy, hmm?" he continued in a louder tone. "The Railroad has opposed the Institute since our founding—to the Minutemen, they're just one more bogeyman in a Commonwealth full of them." He stood up from the bench and began pacing. "What do you think is going to happen, Whisp? Do you think if you pour yourself out the Minutemen are going to band together and create a new government? Do you think you might have the 'good ole U S of A' back the way you knew it? It's not going to happen. Your old world is dead, and you'd better come to terms with the corpse of what's left."

Beatrice wiped at the tears sliding down her cheeks. "Why are you saying this?" she said, her voice shaking. "Do you want me to drop the Minutemen? Do you want me to stop giving a damn about someone other than a synth; to just accept things as they are—not make the Commonwealth a better place? Do you want me to stop making life a little bit brighter, a little easier, so Shaun has a future without death around every corner?"

"I want you stop wasting your time on a group that can't protect innocents from people like… l-like raiders or whatever shit the wasteland decides to vomit up next," he snapped.

For a moment they stared at each other, his words hanging in the air between them like fog.

Beatrice stared at him, her tears continuing to fall. She'd never seen Deacon angry before: somber, yes, lighthearted, all the time: but this… this was _rage_.

But for the first time since he started his rant, she didn't think it was directed at her.

"Deacon…"

Deacon's tense posture melted away, his smile came back as if the last few seconds hadn't happened. "But hell, what do I know?" he said in his usual carefree tone. "You've been doing a pretty good job. Been even seeing patrols of Minutemen wandering around. I guess time will tell. Say, I'm going to go do a thing. Catch ya later?" He walked away without waiting for an answer, lighting a cigarette and taking a very long drag on it.

* * *

Notes: Hang on folks, we're just getting started... As always all the praise and cookies to Quinzelade, my beta reader and cheerleader (who has put up with a lot of imposter syndrome from me).


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

In the morning after Deacon had left her crying on a bench above the Boathouse, he acted like nothing had happened. He was full of his usual chatter, though Beatrice thought he was a little more effusive than usual. She tried her best to ignore it; she could avoid problems as well as he could.

Fortunately, there was no end of work at the Taffington Boathouse. She attended a townhall where the settlers voted on using some extra caps in the budget to buy another water purifier. They had plenty for themselves but wanted to start selling their spare at a small, close-by settlement called Covenant—which Beatrice had never heard of, but she supported the idea of settlements trading and allying with each other, even if they weren't officially affiliated with the Minutemen. Dogmeat also showed up in the middle of the day to excitedly lick her face and demand a game of fetch, even though she'd left him at Sanctuary several days ago.

She also helped untangle nets from the river, did laundry, and repaired a rip in one of her disguises. _Gotta work on repairing my 'we're just partners' disguise,_ she thought wryly, using a needle to clumsily close the seam. Needlepoint was a new wasteland skill for her, and she still wasn't great at it. _I wonder how long until Deacon figures out that we shouldn't even be partners anymore?_ She stuck her finger with the needle and swore, shaking the hurt hand. _Then again, Deacon seems… preoccupied by something. Maybe he won't notice that my feelings have changed._

Preoccupied. It was the only reason she could think for his outburst the night before. Railroad activities were picking up and they were all feeling the strain. And, honestly, could she say that his outburst was out of character? He'd probably spent the first month and a half of their relationship hiding most everything about him. Perhaps now that they were friends, she'd start seeing the real him.

She just wished that she had the right to help him with whatever was bothering him.

"Hey."

Beatrice jumped, smacking her head on a shelf on the wall, raining down a collection of empty tin cans on her.

Deacon grinned at her from the open doorway. "Are you always this graceful or did I catch you at the best time of your life?"

She winced, rubbing her head. "Ha ha. You know me," she said, and then couldn't finish the thought because the way he was smiling at her made her lose all words from her mind. _Damnit. Dez is going to flip if she finds out._

"So, uh," he said, glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck. "I sort of unloaded a whole bunch of garbage on you last night—otherwise known as yelling—and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice at you. It was… unprofessional."

She struggled to keep her facial expression neutral. _Unprofessional_. Was that all they were? Colleagues on a job? She tried not to feel hurt.

They were friends, right? And what about that kiss in Goodneighbor? Had he really been unaffected by it? Or was he trying to put up a barrier again?

Deacon continued. "I've got a temper… well, it's been a hell of a long time since it got the better of me, and last night was one of those times and, uh, yeah."

She walked over to him and searched his face. He was serious. There was even a little nervousness in the way his hands wouldn't stop playing with the edges of his sleeves.

"Thanks, Dee. I forgive you," she said, leaning in to give him a quick hug.

"Oh. Uh, okay, so we're doing this." He patted her awkwardly on the back and she laughed.

"I'll turn you into a hugger yet. Think of it like putting on a new persona: 'Deacon the hugger.'" She leaned away, worried by a new thought. "I know some people don't like to be touched a lot. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, so if you really don't like it…"

"Nah. It's mostly Super Mutants I object to. When they hug, you just get enormous green boobs in your face and a knife in the ribs. When it's you… I don't mind so much." He cleared his throat and took a step back. "Now, let's say we hold hands and skip down to HQ singing 'tra la la' or something like that. Dez will love it."

"I thought you wanted to stop in Diamond City first?"

"Oh right," he said, running a hand over his jaw, which was showing signs of ginger scruff. He'd complained while they were still in Goodneighbor that his razor was growing dull. Because of the mission, though, he hadn't had time to get it sharpened. John at the Super Salon would do it though.

"Okay, then. _Slight_ detour to the Great Green Jewel, and then back to HQ."

They made it to Diamond City with little trouble. Deacon knew best how to avoid the raider and Super Mutant nests lurking between the Taffington Boathouse and the baseball stadium that had once been Fenway Park, and Dogmeat helped sniff out any other unexpected problems. Deacon stopped once they were close to duck into a ruined storefront to change into his Diamond City security uniform.

"How do they let you just leave for long periods of time?" Beatrice asked as he stepped out. "Don't you get in trouble?"

"I started a rumor that I'm the bastard son of McDonough. No one's brave enough to check if it's true, so they just kind of let me do what I want."

"Is that true?"

He just grinned.

She shook her head. "One of these days I really am going to grab your hand and sing 'tra la la' as we walk into Diamond City."

"Why wait?" he asked, grabbed her hand and starting to skip. "Tra la la!" he sang in a horrible, tuneless falsetto.

Beatrice snatched her hand away, laughing, and he chased after her, wiggling his fingers. "Come on, Whisper, it's just a little hand holding. Afraid of cooties now, are we?"

"More like I'm afraid of having no dignity," she laughed, backing away from him and hitting a wall behind her with a small 'oof!' of surprise.

"Gotcha!" Deacon planted his hands on either side of her head. "Dignity is way overrated, if you ask me." He looked down at her, his grin still in place.

Beatrice's heart was pounding so hard, she was surprised Deacon couldn't hear it, and she realized that they were just standing there, staring at each other. She was afraid to move, afraid to spoil the moment, but unable to stop herself from glancing at his mouth, thinking about the kiss they'd shared in Goodneighbor: the _fake_ kiss that might have gotten out of hand. Did he think about it too?

"Is this guy bothering you, miss?"

They looked up to see a real Diamond City security guard advancing on them, though he stopped when he saw Deacon's face. "Oh," he said, sounding nervous. "David. Nice to see you back, sir."

Deacon smirked at her expression, then straightened, turning to the guard. "Nice to be back. I thought the lady here said something about the mayor, but she only said something about her hair, so all's well."

"Oh." The guard glanced at her again. "Yeah, I recognize her. Trader up from Quincy. Nicky's pal. She's okay, sir."

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," Beatrice said in her best righteously offended voice. "I'm going into the city before I'm rudely accosted again." She whistled to Dogmeat and they continued down the street.

#

"What do I do, Piper?" Beatrice asked, curled up on her friend's battered couch, a mug of weak, stale coffee in her hand. Coffee. Her list of things she missed about her old life was long, but good strong coffee was definitely in the top five.

"Blue, I'm just having a hard enough time believing that you _like_ him, much less think you might be falling for him," Piper said with a chuckle. "I can barely get him to sit down for a 'hello how are ya.'" She reached over the side of the couch to scratch behind Dogmeat's ears.

Beatrice shook her head. "Because you're a reporter who's almost as good as he is on gathering intel. You know he can't tell you anything about the Railroad." She gave her friend a pointed look. "And neither can I."

"Yeah, yeah," Piper said with a sigh. "I'll keep dreaming." She leaned forward, her face serious. "Listen, Blue, I know you don't want to hear it, but trust me: having feelings for someone you work with that isn't available is bad news. It gets messy and complicated." She glanced away from Beatrice for a moment. "It happened to me once. A few years before you woke up, guy came into Diamond City with the same idea I had: start a newspaper. But when he saw that I had such a good thing going, he offered to work for me. I was so excited: someone else like me who cared about the truth and giving it to the people. We had a great run for a few months…"

"And you fell for him?" Beatrice prompted gently.

"Yeah." Piper shrugged, her face wry. "It's bound to happen. You stay up late writing together; you go out to interview people and get chased off; you go investigate a rumor and end up hiding together from angry Atom preachers. War stories, you know? It creates a bond. We got close… but he wasn't single." She looked up at Beatrice, her face a little guilty. "I'm not a home-wrecker, Blue. I kept my feelings to myself; focused on the work, but it was hard. You can't just shut down said feelings when you work together. I started seeing intentions and meanings behind his actions that weren't there. We started to fight about stupid stuff—mostly me being frustrated at the situation and taking it out on him. I realized that what I needed was professional distance, so I suggested that we expand the office, told him I needed my space; tried to give some excuses that I'm not sure really held up. So he tried to open up a branch office, but the rent was too high; and we had more fights about the editorial direction of the paper, and he said that I was selfish and wanted the paper to myself, and ended up leaving Diamond City altogether."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged, picking at a fingernail. "It's old news. But I tell you this because if you're working with Deacon and you have these feelings, it's only a matter of time until they get in the way of your work." She hesitated, biting her lip.

"What?"

Piper looked as if she was considering her words. "Just… be careful with him. I mean, how well can you really know a liar?"

Beatrice pursed her lips, not wanting to get into an argument, and checked the time on her Pip-Boy. "I'd better get going. Deacon's probably waiting outside."

"Too afraid to come into the reporter's house, eh?"

"Too smart, I think," Beatrice said with a laugh.

Deacon was indeed waiting outside—freshly shaved and in a new disguise, her personal favorite wasterlander garb of jeans and soft flannel—though his expression was so somber that Beatrice felt her stomach clench with worry.

"What's happened?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the market. "We need to see Nick. You'll get the full story there."

"Deacon, you're scaring me. Is… are all our friends okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry. We haven't been compromised… at least I don't think so. Come on. Nick'll explain. Maybe leave the dog at Piper's though. It might be crowded."

Deacon kept his strides smooth and calm, and Beatrice tried to emulate him, knowing that he was doing his best to not attract notice, but his warning had been cryptic enough that full-fledged disaster scenarios were running through her mind at breakneck speed.

Nick looked up from the front desk when she opened the door, his pale silicone lips smiling. "Kid, good to see you. Your, uh, partner was here a few minutes ago checking in and when he heard the case, he wanted to bring you in. Going to be a bit squeezed in here, but we'll manage. Ellie, grab a chair from upstairs, will ya?" Ellie stood up from where she'd been perched at the other desk with a notepad.

"I can stand, Nick. Thanks," Deacon said, edging off to the right, avoiding a teetering stack of boxes. The ghoul that was already in the chair in front of the desk stood when he saw Beatrice, taking his hat off.

"Ma'am," he said with a polite nod. "You can have the chair."

Beatrice stared at him. She hadn't encountered old pre-war manners in anyone she'd met since waking up. Nick was the closest, but even he forgot sometimes.

"Bea," Nick said, "this is an old Boston PD friend of mine: Robert Peters. He helped me track down Kellogg to Fort Hagan. Rob, this is Beatrice Huang and her, uh, partner. She's the friend I was telling you about. She and her partner here will want to help out your client I'm sure, once they hear the details."

"Officer Peters, thank you very much for helping Nick. I know where my son is thanks to you." She clasped his hand, feeling the sinewy strength behind his grip.

"Happy to do it, ma'am. Kellogg was a menace. I was glad to see him finally put down. Also, just Rob is fine," he rasped with a smile. "No chief, no badge; no paycheck." He shrugged.

"Now, Rob," Nick said in a tone of voice that sounded like they'd had this discussion before. "Justice doesn't always have a codified law. Folks still need our help without a government to tell them so."

"Yeah, yeah, Nick. I got ya, but it feels silly to have people call me that now."

"Are… are you a pre-war ghoul?" asked Beatrice. She'd only met a few. But each time she did, she got excited: it was like finding a little bit of home.

"Yeah." He shifted, uncomfortable, his eyes darting to the side. "Look, I know we're not supposed to be in Diamond City, but—"

"No, no, you misunderstand me," Beatrice hurried to assure him. "It's just… I'm pre-war too—it's a long story and we probably don't have time for it—but I don't know, I always feel like I find long lost family when I meet a pre-war ghoul."

Rob's craggy face brightened. "Well, you do sorta remind me of a girl I knew before the bombs fell. Wasn't going to say anything, because that'd be crazy. Met her at a shooting range of all places…"

Memory came crashing in and Beatrice's mouth dropped open. "Rob?" she said. "You're Rob?"

He looked puzzled. "Yeah?"

"That was me! I kissed you in the back of your car!"

Rob stared at her, mouth agape. "Atom's irradiated balls, you've got to be shitting me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Beatrice laughed, clasping her hands in front of her mouth to avoid hugging a man she'd made out with on her wedding day. "I can't believe this."

"Neither can I," Rob said, looking her up and down. "Look at you, more beautiful than even my memories. I really have to hear how you pulled that off. And me, looking like chewed up piece of beef jerky."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, " she said, putting a hand on his arm. "I still see you in there. The smile is the same… your eyes are the same."

Rob chuckled. "Yeah, got lucky on the eyes. Sclera hasn't turned black yet, though the day is young."

Deacon cleared his throat. "I for one, love touching reunions—really, can't get enough of them—but maybe we should find out what we're here for?"

Beatrice blushed, glancing up to find Ellie biting her lip and looking away. Nick had a wry smile on his face.

"Right." She sat down in the empty chair. "Sorry. Tell me what's going on?"

"To begin with," Nick said, "let me tell you why Rob's here. Rob's been trying to establish an agency outside Diamond City. What with ghouls not being welcome _here_ , it was hard for them to get to the agency to hire me."

"Yeah," Rob said, straightening with pride. "Got a small office in Goodneighbor and been getting a few jobs recently, enough that the folks at Bunker Hill started to take notice. They're closer to my office than Diamond City. A few days ago, Old Man Stockton contacted me on a missing person's case: his daughter hasn't come back from a caravan run."

Beatrice straightened, glancing at Deacon who gave her a slight nod. Here was the Railroad connection.

"Stockton hired a caravan master he'd worked with before—guy called Honest Dan: good man, no nonsense type, but he's in over his head with an investigation like this. He's a blunt instrument, and the suspects aren't budging an inch."

"What happened? You must have some evidence of wrongdoing if you already have suspects."

"According to Stockton, Amelia—the daughter—has a good head on her shoulders and is invested in the family business, so she wouldn't just run off." He cleared his throat. "Then we found bodies: the pack brahmin, the merchant she traveling with—one Fred O'Connell—and the guards. But no Amelia."

"Ballistic weapon damage or laser burns?" asked Deacon, and Beatrice nodded at his line of thought. Energy weapons suggested an Institute attack, which meant at this moment Amelia could be getting tortured for information on the Railroad. How much did she even know? Old Man Stockton struck her as the type to be extremely careful with his Railroad activities. Had he been able to hide them from his family? And that was assuming the Institute knew about Stockton's activities too...

Rob consulted his notes. "Bullet wounds. No burns. The bodies weren't looted either. Fred still had a pouch of caps on him, and the guards still had their weapons—nice weapons, too."

"Not raiders or Gunners, then," said Beatrice.

Nick nodded. "We think this was an abduction of opportunity and so was sloppily managed. My guess is that the suspects wanted Amelia specifically for something, but they didn't have time to plan an operation that might have otherwise been written off as a raider attack."

"Who are the suspects?"

"Every single resident of a whole town," Rob said, his mouth twisting. "Covenant; a small settlement across the river northeast of here. The caravan was within spitting distance of its walls, plus we found a bottle of something called 'Deezer's Lemonade' with Fred."

"What's lemonade?" Deacon asked, looking puzzled. "Is it a new chem? Moonshine?"

"Lemonade's made with lemons," said Rob and Beatrice at the same time, then laughed.

"Not sure about this stuff being actual lemonade, though," Rob said, still grinning at Beatrice. "I'm pretty sure the fruit went extinct after the bombs dropped. No, this stuff—whatever it is—is only available at Covenant."

Nick drummed his metallic fingers against the desk. "It proves the caravan stopped at Covenant, but not much more."

"What's really got me wondering is how Honest Dan keeps getting the runaround. Innocent folks stick to the same story. Dan has heard enough discrepancies to know that someone there is hiding something. They even deny that the caravan was there in the first place, and that makes me suspicious."

"So where do we come in?" asked Beatrice. She glanced at Deacon, wondering if he would bring the Railroad connection to light, but he kept quiet.

Rob grimaced. "Fact of the matter is… these Covenant types are about as friendly to ghouls as the Diamond City folks are."

"And I've got another case," Nick said. "But you've both done undercover work before. We wondered if you could infiltrate Covenant and get some answers where Honest Dan hasn't been able to."

"I'll come along too," Rob said. "I think if I act as your guard, they'll let me in. The idea is that you could be traders selling some sort of high end merchandise. Word on the caravan beat is that they buy a lot of fusion cores and some general electronic stuff—circuits and fuses and whatnot, and the goods they sell in Covenant are rock bottom prices."

"So they've got an energy consumption problem and are trying to attract a lot of trade their way," Beatrice said, tapping her finger against her lips. "Interesting." She looked at Deacon. "What do you think?"

He frowned in thought. "To be honest, Covenant has been on our radar recently." He didn't specify who "our" was. "But it seemed—from rumor—pretty normal, so it's been a low priority. Now that Stockton's daughter is missing, though, I'd say we should definitely look into it."

"Good." Rob looked relieved. "I'll have to get some armor and stuff—gotta look the part—but I think we should head there as soon as possible."

"Wait," Deacon said, frowning. "We gotta have our story straight. We're traders, you're the guard, but what're we selling? We have be able to show them actual goods if they're going to take us seriously."

"Fusion cores," Beatrice said, an idea popping into her mind. "Tom—" She paused, glancing at Rob, but Deacon picked up on her train of thought, snapping his fingers.

"That's right. He has a collection of drained ones, doesn't he? There's all kinds of junk laying around for his projects. I'll bet I can convince him to let us borrow them."

"And I think I can scrape up enough caps to buy the real deal if they want to test one."

"I could kiss you again," Rob said, grinning wide.

"Am I included in this love fest, because if so, I'm all over it," said Deacon, waggling his eyebrows.

"How about you take this love fest on the road so you can get ready," Nick said, rolling his eyes. "Ellie, see if we have any caps we can contribute to the fund. You'll need more than just a fusion core for your cover story," he said when Beatrice made to object, then glanced up at Deacon. "And I'm guessing your wardrobe of disguises doesn't include any dresses."

"You'd be wrong about that, my friend," Deacon said, rocking back on his heels, "but she doesn't have the shoulders to fill out my dresses."

"It's true," she confirmed. "And yellow really isn't my color."

"Not mine, either, to be fair," he said with a shrug. "But they were on sale, and dresses in my size are really hard to find."  
Rob glanced back and forth between them, confused. "Hoo boy, I feel like there's a story here I'm missing."

"Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen," Deacon said with an outstretched hand.

Beatrice choked on the can of water she'd popped, just managing to avoid spraying it all over the desk.

"We didn't have a proper introduction earlier. You've already met our General, and I'm her spymaster. We run covert ops together sometimes. Can never be too careful with the Institute and other nasties running around."

"Wow, really?" Rob looked impressed as he shook Deacon's hand. "That's terrific. I'm glad I stopped by to get Nick's advice."

"Plus, you got to reunite with an old flame," Deacon said with a friendly jab to Rob's side. "Not bad for a day's work, am I right? Say, let's let Nick and Ellie have their office back and we'll get some Takahashi noodles to go. My treat."

"Yeah, sure that'd be great! Just let me get my gloves and helmet on. Can't scandalize the locals."

"This tired bunch of smoothskins could use a good scandal if you ask me…"

Beatrice watched Rob and Deacon walk out ahead of her still chatting, her eyebrows rising higher and higher. Deacon was being very… chummy with someone he just met. Granted, Rob was going to be working with them and Nick vouched for him, but still. Normally his mode of operation was to let her do most of the talking while he lingered in the background as her "mute friend, 'Dingo,'" as he was fond of saying.

"Here are caps," said Ellie, handing Beatrice a little jingling pouch. "Hey, watch out for Rob, will you? He's had a rough time recently, and, well, I want to see him get a leg up, you know?"

"Sure," said Beatrice, surprised. "You know each other?"

A little tinge of pink stained her cheeks. "It's… complicated. Anyway, sorry for keeping you. I'll let you get to work."

"One more thing, kid," Nick said, standing from his desk, "I could see that Preston didn't want to talk Railroad business in front of Rob, but what do you think?"

"Hard to say," Beatrice said, shaking her head. "This doesn't sound like an Institute job—who else would want Railroad secrets? And for that matter, I'm not sure Amelia knows anything. Deacon and I have to make a stop to get the fusion cores anyway, so maybe we can find out more then."

"And if it isn't about the Railroad…" Nick started patting his pockets, his face somber.

"I don't know. The whole thing is odd. Slavers would have grabbed all of them, right?"

Nick pulled a squashed pack of cigarettes from his jacket. "I could see the guards being put down in a slaver grab because they fought back, but yeah, it does seem odd that they only took Amelia and not Fred too. And I don't think it was an Institute job either. They're usually a lot cleaner—in fact, you're the only person I know who's actually witnessed the Institute stealing someone." He lit a cigarette and took a puff, smoke leaking out of the cracks in his face. "Rob's done good work. The evidence points to someone in Covenant having a hand in it. I wish I could come along for the ride, but like I said, I have another case. Missing person for me too—Earl Sterling here in Diamond City. Ever meet him?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You'd remember," Ellie said in a dry voice, putting down an ashtray on Nick's desk with a significant look in his direction. "He's a little… over the top when it comes to women."

"Anyway," Nick said, walking her to the door. "I've held you back long enough. Deacon's probably painted the Wall yellow by now. Good luck, kid. Let me know how it turns out."

"Will do. Thanks."

Beatrice found Deacon and Rob balancing three bowls of Takahashi noodles each, standing uncertainly by the noodle stand. Rob noticed Beatrice first and nudged Deacon.

"Preston and I got you noodles!" Rob said with a cheery wave through his face-obscuring helmet, almost dumping his stack of bowls. Deacon just smirked at her, daring her to say something about his choice of name.

This was going to be an interesting mission.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"What's your top five?" Beatrice asked Rob as they walked down the road toward Covenant. The better part of the afternoon had passed while she and Deacon scurried across the map to the Old North Church to gather Tinker Tom's used fusion cores as well as supplies for their disguises. She'd left her Pip-Boy and Dogmeat with Piper, though she missed the dog's presence even now. She and Deacon were reprising their covers from the op in Goodneighbor: Nancy Wake and Joey McNamara, though embellished for the new role. They were tech traders up from Quincy with a secret source of fusion cores and other rare pre-war tech. They were small but trying to gain an edge over Bunker Hill's monopoly on the trade market, which is why they were attracted to Covenant, an up-and-comer on the caravan stop with a lot of potential.

"Top five what?" Deacon asked. "Ooh, is this junk food? Cause I got a real craving for some Blamco Mac 'n Cheese right now."

Rob chuckled. "No, it's top five things we miss about the old days, ain't it, Bea?"

"Yep," she nodded, grinning. "I'll go first: number one: reliable indoor plumbing. I would kill to go one day without smelling raw sewage."

"Or having to walk through it," Rob added in a dark tone.

"Yes, especially that." Beatrice shuddered. "Second: coffee. I can almost taste it, I want it so bad."

"A nice dark roast," Rob said, gazing off into the distance. "The boys at the station used to argue who would make the new pot after the last one had been emptied."

"Third: peanut butter."

"What's peanut butter?" asked Deacon.

Rob and Beatrice shared a glance.

"Roasted dried bean—"

"I thought peanuts were a legume?"

"Bean, legume, whatever. But you roast it, then grind it up, and it released oils and it became spreadable. On toast, crackers, or just by the spoonful."

"That… does not sound the least bit appetizing." Deacon wrinkled his nose. "People ate that?"

"It's so good!" Beatrice protested. "When I was pregnant, sometimes it was the only thing I could eat. Everything else made me throw up." Beatrice swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in her throat. The fun suddenly ended, recalling her pregnancy swollen belly, and Shaun's newborn eyes gazing up at her, his little mouth smiling at her. _Soon,_ she thought, her heart aching, _Amari said she'd break the encryption on Kellogg's cybernetic device soon._ She'd been too wounded from the fight with Kellogg to deliver the device to Amari herself, so Nick had. Now she regretted not taking the opportunity while they'd been in Goodneighbor to check in with the doctor. Amari had said she would leave word with Nick when she had something, but surely it wouldn't have been too much to just walk in and ask? Why hadn't she? Had she been so caught up in the mission; in examining her feelings for Deacon she'd forgotten about Shaun? What kind of a mother was she? It didn't matter that the weather had been terrible; that they'd been worried about G3's life. Her priority was finding Shaun and for the first time in a long time, she'd forgotten that.

Rob cleared his throat. "I miss just being able to walk down the street in broad daylight without anyone shooting at you or any oversized rodent coming to gnaw on your face."

Beatrice smiled weakly. "Yeah."

Deacon glanced at her with a small frown, as if sensing her heart had gone out of the conversation.

"Fenway Park hot dogs… mustard and relish; toilet paper; the daily funnies..." He hummed a bit, then slanted a glance at Beatrice. "Kisses from pretty girls."

That startled a blush and a laugh from Beatrice. "Rob, if you try to tell me you haven't been kissed in 200 years, I might be tempted to call you a liar."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sure, there've been a few girls; a few kisses between then and now, but I do remember yours though. Ain't every day you get about the best damn kiss of your life and then she up and leaves after telling ya she's married. I got quite a few drinks out of that story, let me tell ya."

"You kissed him while you were married?" Deacon's eyebrows shot up to the brim of his hat.

Beatrice wished she could sink into the ruined pavement, her face bloodleaf red. She could feel their eyes on her: both curious. She hadn't told Deacon much about Nate. Whenever she got to talking about her pre-war life, she'd mostly talked about Shaun or school or stupid mundane things that didn't really matter. For the first time she realized that perhaps she had been too harsh on Deacon for being mum about his past. Really, had she been any better?

She saw Deacon's expression change, as if something just occurred to him, then three steps later he tripped over an exposed root crawling over the road, his arms cartwheeling as he tried to maintain his balance.

"Whoa," Rob said, catching his arm. "Okay there?"

"Peachy. Thanks."

She glanced at Deacon, curious herself now. Having been his partner for so long, she knew that the impression he gave of happy-liar-always-ready-with-a-joke wasn't the whole truth. He was frequently serious at times, like when they'd visited the Boston Public Library and his genuine remorse over the destruction of so many books had nearly brought her to tears. But he seemed quieter than usual for some reason. Was he just mentally prepping for the mission ahead? Or was there something else?

"We're close," Deacon said. "Game faces everyone."

Like they'd talked about earlier, Rob fell back behind them, unslinging the rifle from his back so he looked like a bodyguard at the ready. Beatrice walked ahead and took Deacon's arm, adjusting the brim of her fiery red fedora so that it sat at a more cocksure angle. For this disguise, "Nancy" was wearing a women's black business skirt and tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt—all with ballistic weave, of course, even the hat. Deacon was in a slim gray suit with a red tie that matched her fedora. He'd forgone his wig but had dyed his eyebrows since this might be a long op. She found she missed the hint of ginger.

As they approached, Beatrice had time to observe the little settlement with unabashed curiosity and her eyebrows rose as more details came into focus.

"That's four turrets just on this side alone," she said. "I mean, they are a little exposed out here, but those walls would keep out all but the most determined raiders. There's even barbed wire."

"They're nervous about something, for sure," Deacon agreed.

They quieted as they neared the entrance to the settlement where a tall man with gray hair sat behind a desk shuffling through some papers. He looked up, seeing them, and gave a broad, friendly smile that made Beatrice's skin crawl.

"Used car salesman," she muttered.

"Hmm?"

"His fake smile. That guy's going to try to sell us something with a rusted underbelly."

"Gotcha."

"Hey friends." The man stood up behind his desk as they approached. "This is Covenant, a real up and coming settlement. Can I ask your business here? Don't want to be rude, but when someone walks up with an armed guard..."

"We're traders up from Quincy," Beatrice said, looking him over with a critical eye. "Looking to expand our market and heard a few rumors about this place. Thought we'd give it a try." She stuck out a hand. "I'm Nancy Wake."

"Swanson," the man said, his grip hard enough that she had to fight not to wince. He turned to Deacon. "You must be Mr. Wake. I could see you walking down the road arm-in-arm and whispering to each other. Real sweet to see a young couple go into business together."

"That's right," Deacon said without missing a beat. "Joseph Wake. My wife's the brains of the outfit. I handle the caps."

"We're always interested in new traders," said Swanson. "What kind of business do you run?" His posture shifted into something vaguely more threatening. "If you're selling chems, we're not interested. No offense, but we're a nice, clean town and we don't want any trouble."

"Mr. Swanson, we don't sell chems," Beatrice said in a cold voice. "Do we look like the type of people who do?"

He held up his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry if I caused any offense, Mrs. Wake, but I'm just doing my job. What is it that you sell?"

"Fusion cores, mostly, along with a few other assorted electronics and gizmos," she said, opening up her bag to show the top of a core, before closing it back up. She didn't miss the hungry expression on his face. "We have an exclusive supplier. "

"Well now," Swanson said, "I think we might be able to do business together. But there's the matter of the SAFE test, first."

"The what?" Beatrice frowned, as if she hadn't heard of it, though Rob had warned them ahead of time that there was some sort of questionnaire that newcomers had to answer before being allowed in.

"It's standard procedure," Swanson said in a soothing voice. "Don't worry, it's not very long and completely painless. Helps us root out undesirables. Like chem dealers." He said the last with a little wink.

"Oh," Beatrice said, allowing her posture to relax. "I guess that isn't so bad. Do we all have to take it?"

Swanson glanced at Rob, his smile fading. "No, just you and your husband. Your... guard won't be doing any actual business, so he'll be fine." He sorted through his papers and pinned one to a clipboard, and took out a pencil. "Now, who wants to go first? I must ask that whoever isn't taking the test stand out of earshot. We don't want any accidental influence from hearing the questions ahead of time."

"I'll go first," Beatrice volunteered.

"I'll take a smoke break, and Mick will stay with you, baby," Deacon said, referring to Rob's cover name. "That will be fine, right, Mr. Swanson?"

The man frowned but nodded slowly. "I don't see any harm. Please, sit down Mrs. Wake."

With Rob's presence at her shoulder, Beatrice felt a little calmer, though she knew she had no reason be nervous about just a little test.

"Now, there's no right or wrong answer here," Swanson said, his voice adapting a cadence of someone whose repeated those words a lot, "just answer honestly."

The questions were a series of bizarre scenarios that seemingly had no relation to each other, though Beatrice could tell that it was a psychological test of some kind. But what were they testing for? Swanson had said it was to "weed out" people like chem dealers, but she wasn't sure if she believed him.

As he had said, it wasn't a very long test. Deacon was still staring at the river and smoking when she finished. "Four more turrets on the other side," he murmured when she walked up to him. "My turn, baby?" he said in a normal voice, and walked back with her. She listened from behind him as he answered the questions, and was interested to hear his replies, since he was answering as "Joey" and not himself.

"All done," said Swanson, tucking their test answers away into a folder. "Let me be the first to officially welcome you to Covenant." He walked over to the blue double doors and with a little smile and flourish, unlocked them.

"Damn," Deacon said as Rob let out a low whistle behind them.

"Oh!" Beatrice breathed. Covenant, to put it simply, was beautiful. From the outside, she had been able to see roofs of several houses, but hadn't been able to pinpoint why they seemed strange to her. Now she realized why: the houses were all pristine, or nearly so. The houses had walls that were miraculously whole and not propped up by scavenged wood or pieces of rusted sheet metal. She felt like she'd been transported back to before the war. There was even green grass free of weeds, thorns, and brush, so soft looking that Beatrice wanted to kick her shoes off and dig her toes in.

"Nothing better than seeing newcomers' expressions," said a rotund man standing just inside the door. He hooked his thumbs under green suspenders, beaming behind his beard. "I heard Swanson was letting some new traders in and wanted to be the first to welcome you. I'm Jacob Orden, mayor of Covenant. Let me give you a quick tour." He waved a hand toward the town. "Everything for guests is here in the main square. The blue house on the right is our general store and doctor's office. If you're injured or sick, just tell Doc Patricia and she'll set you right up. The general store is run by Penny Fitzgerald. She'll be the one you'll do business with. At the far north end behind our lovely elm—a tree that survived the bombs!—is her husband Brian Fitzgerald's office. We don't have much call for police—that's the word for pre-war security guards—but Mr. Fitzgerald is the one who fills that role. Has to be boring, though, if you ask me. Covenant is peaceful. No raiders; no theft; no crime. Sometimes someone will have a little too much to drink and need to sleep it off, but who hasn't?" He offered a playful wink in Beatrice's direction. "Please, do whatever you feel you need to do for your busy schedules, but I won't pressure you. Use the rest of the afternoon to get to know us and then if you like what you see, we can do business."

"Seems like a fair deal," Deacon said in a cautiously optimistic tone, and Beatrice smiled at the mayor.

"Wonderful!" Jacob rubbed his hands together. "Let's go talk to Penny; that's the first step and then we can look at drawing up a contract."

 _And we can start looking for Amelia Stockton,_ thought Beatrice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Penny Fitzgerald's shop was as scrubbed free of dirt as the owner herself. As they walked in, she was leaned over her counter, pointed chin in her hands as she gabbed with an equally clean woman wearing a pink dress.

"That last caravan?" Penny giggled. "They were rather… fragrant, weren't they?"

"Well, the guards were ghouls, so what did you expect? But honestly, would it kill any of the humans to bathe once in awhile?"

" _Talia_ didn't seem to mind the guards." Penny wrinkled her nose. "But then, she never does…"

"Ladies," boomed Jacob with a false smile and a nervous glance in Beatrice and Deacon's direction. "Don't let me interrupt your… er, girl talk, but I wanted to introduce some potential new business partners to you, Mrs. Fitzgerald."

The woman in pink blushed the same color as her dress and hurried out, ducking her head as she walked past them. Penny straightened the front of her own vibrant green dress, her thin lips stretching across her sharp face in a smile that seemed a little anxious.

"Oh! Welcome to my shop. So happy to meet new folks. I hope Swanson didn't give you too hard a time? He's so serious I swear he scares off more people than lets in!"

"Mrs. Fitzgerald," Jacob said in a low tone, and her half-expressed giggle ended and she looked rather irritated and embarrassed.

Feeling that some goodwill was needed here, Beatrice grinned secretively at Penny, leaning forward to rest her hands on the counter. "I have to agree with you about the baths, Mrs. Fitzgerald. Hot water isn't that expensive! You'd think no one ever heard of soap these days!"

Penny beamed, looking triumphantly at Jacob. "I know! That's what I've been saying. Well, what a refreshing change this is. Some of these caravans are so dour and stiff, clomping around like a protecteron, but you folks will fit right in around here…" She hesitated a little, seeing Rob's ghoulish features behind them at the door, but returned her focus to Beatrice. "So, what can I do for you?"

Beatrice laid out their pitch, placing the four fusion cores they'd brought with them on the counter, Jacob and Penny's eyes growing larger with each she pulled out. When the talk turned to caps—Deacon's stated role in the business—Beatrice took the opportunity to back out of the store. With any luck, she'd get a chance to meet Honest Dan without anyone watching.

"Penny, dear," she said, "it's been such a long trip. Is there a place a lady might freshen up?"

"Oh! Of course. My apartment is right upstairs. You can use my—"

"Let me get Brian to show you the guesthouse," Jacob said, interrupting Penny. "You can stay there tonight, free of charge."

Penny deflated a little, but Jacob missed the grumpy look she aimed at his back.

"I'm not sure that we were planning on staying the evening," Beatrice demurred.

"Come now, Mrs. Wake," Jacob said in a coaxing tone. "It's nearly dinner time, after all. The trek back to Bunker Hill or Diamond City would take hours. Let us show you some real pre-war hospitality."

"It won't hurt to take one night off, I guess," Deacon said. "And it would be nice to see more of the town."

"Then I guess we'll stay," Beatrice said, smiling.

Jacob escorted her out of store and flagged down a man with slicked back dark hair and a square jaw. "Brian, this is Mrs. Wake. She and her husband will be staying here tonight. Could you show her to the guesthouse?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Mayor. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wake. Here on business?"

"Word certainly travels fast here in Covenant."

"I'm the closest thing to a security guard that our settlement has," he said with a chuckle. "It's my business to know of any newcomers in town. We're a tight-knit group here, and a lot of wasters—if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am—aren't used to our ways, so we all do our best to help them out."

 _And check to make sure they're not causing any mischief,_ she added silently. As they crossed the expansive square, Beatrice's eye snagged on the one element standing out in the landscape: a man with long hair, unkempt beard and ragged leathers was leaning over a settler, a scowl on his face.

Brian followed her gaze and frowned.

"Not a resident, I assume?" she asked.

"No, another guest like yourself," he said, though his smile this time was a little more strained. "Like I said, some wasters aren't used to our ways. Would you excuse me a moment? I need to have a word with Mr. Honest Dan before he talks our residents to death."

Beatrice wanted to edge closer to catch what was being said, but that would be suspicious, so she stayed put.

While they were waiting, she found herself glancing at Rob out of the corner of her eye. They hadn't really had a chance to talk one on one. But this place with its smells of cut grass and clean laundry made her feel closer to her previous life than she'd felt in a very long time. Rob looked different than her memories—apart from the obvious, of course. Radiation had taken away his hair, nose, and most of his skin, but he was also shorter than she recalled—the years adding inches in her mind. He was still taller than her, with an inch or two on Deacon. He was leaner too, though she supposed that was probably more due to the lack of ideal nutrition in the Commonwealth than any ghoulish change.

"Take a picture," he said, shifting on his feet. "It'll last longer."

"Sorry," she said, blushing. "I didn't mean to stare. It's just… This place reminds me of… back then. It got me thinking of old times." The houses in Covenant weren't like the houses in Sanctuary, but she and Nate toured a neighborhood that looked very much like this when they were house-hunting. Beatrice had hoped it would be a new start for them: she was expecting a baby—Nate's baby—maybe he would stop seeing his lover and be an attentive father-to-be. But he hadn't, of course, and on her worst days—the sudden memory made her cheeks burn—she'd escaped from her crushing reality to that one night in the back of a stranger's car to a world where Rob's breath was hot on her neck. A world where Nate had been left behind in the motel room, with suitcases and expectations and bitter disappointment.  
But the escape was only ever that, and when the fantasy ended, Beatrice nursed her broken heart, stoking her last glimmer of happiness, to rekindle it for another day. But that memory of his kiss… she hadn't thought about that in awhile. Having Shaun to care for had helped ease Rob out of her mind too. Nothing like an utterly dependant infant to chisel your focus into a fine point.

With a twist of guilt in her stomach, Beatrice thought of Deacon. Just thinking of him, of his smile, made fluttery feelings erupt in her stomach that she didn't know what to do with. She knew she cared about Deacon more than she'd thought, but he was so hard to read even at the best of times. Did he care that she and Rob had a fling (if you could call one passionate makeout session a fling)? Did it matter if he cared? It wasn't as if he was in a position to object, she thought grumpily.

"Oh," Rob said, startling her out of her thoughts about oblivious men. "I've been thinking about old days too. You know, um, I went back to that shooting range every day for two weeks, hoping to see you again."

Beatrice blinked. "You did?"

"Yeah." He chuckled, sounding embarrassed. "I mean… well, I'm a sucker for a good story and I was hoping you weren't going to be 'the one that got away.'" He smiled and Bea's heart gave a little thump of remembrance. His smile was unchanged even by the ravages of radiation. "Guess I didn't know what story I was in."

Brian Fitzgerald walked back to them at that moment, looking irritated. "I have to go. The guest house is just there—the green one. Speak to Mr. Singh; he'll show you where you and your husband can stay."

"What about Mick?" Beatrice gestured at Rob.

Brian looked startled, as if he hadn't even noticed Rob was there. "Hmm... well, the guest rooms are small, and…" He leaned in closer to Beatrice, though his voice didn't lower much. "I don't know if we can let your ghoul have an extra bed. The smell, you see… it might upset the other guests."

Beatrice had never had such a hard time keeping a smile on her face, though she wanted to smack the sneer off of Brian's.

"Mick is a valued employee," she said in a cold voice, her hands clenching. "I may rethink my decision to do business—"

"Mrs. Wake, it's fine," Rob rasped. "I prefer sleeping outside anyway. 'Sides, if the room is small, I don't want to be stepped on in the middle of the night if you or Mr. Wake have to get up to use the bathroom."

"Well, I guess that's settled then," Brian said cheerfully. "Let Mr. Singh know and he'll get an extra sleeping bag. We always keep several on hand for bigger caravans." He waved and headed toward his office.

"Thanks, Bea," Rob said in a quiet voice. "But you don't have to stick up for me; I've had 200 years to get used to it."

"Everyone needs someone to stick up for them," she said in an equally low tone. "I'm sorry you haven't had enough people to stick up for you."

He chuckled. "There's the fire I remember. Saw that within the first five minutes I met ya."

She fought the blush staining her cheeks, glad that she couldn't look at him without compromising her cover.

"I… I owe you an apology," she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the door to the green guest house. "For back then. Before the bombs. I was in a… I was having a bad day, and I think I used you to feel better about myself, and it was wrong, and I'm sorry."

"Thanks, but you don't have to do that. I sort of figured as much after you left. Well, I ain't saying it didn't startle the hell outta me, but after awhile I got over it and thought, you know, I can either be real bitter about a pretty married girl who came and kissed me senseless, or I can just remember how much fun it was. And after the bombs fell… well, that memory and others were happier things to dwell on than my skin falling off." His fingers touched her elbow as they reached the porch of the guest house. "Careful of the steps there, Mrs. Wake."

She turned and there was a look of such utter longing in his eyes that it almost took her breath. If they had been alone, she was certain he would have kissed her again.

What's more, she might have let him.

#

Like all the other residents of Covenant she had met so far, Mr. Singh had a pleasant smile and a cheerful attitude. He was at least more polite to Rob than Mr. Fitzgerald and gave him an extra blanket along with the sleeping bag.

"I saw another guest of Covenant on the way here," she said casually, as Mr. Singh bustled behind the counter with the extra blanket. "I think I heard him called Dan? Is he staying here as well?"

Mr. Singh's friendly smile dimmed. "No, ma'am. He is also sleeping outside—he won't bother you, and if he does, just talk to Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Oh, that's a relief." Beatrice fussed with her bag, watching Mr. Singh out of the corner of her eye, but he seemed flustered, and she didn't think she could press the issue of Dan again without provoking some suspicion. Perhaps he'd be amenable to gossip later.

"If you need me, Mrs. Wake," Rob said as Mr. Singh gave him the sleeping bag and blanket. "I'll be out back."

The guest house was just a regular house, though it had been partitioned off into something like a tiny bed and breakfast with two bedrooms upstairs converted into miniature suites with Mr. Singh's apartment on the lower floor with the kitchen and dining room.

Everything was clean—even the mattress looked new—and there was a bathroom with actual working plumbing, though Mr. Singh told her apologetically that hot water could only be turned on by request, and then not very long.

Upstairs, the landing ended at three doors: the common use bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which was already occupied by other guests. The room she would share with "Mr. Wake" was indeed small. Before the war, this might have been a child's room, or a nursery.

Two and a half strides were enough to cross the width of the room, which held a bed with crisp, clean linens, a nightstand with a working lamp, and a small but new chest of drawers, which she determined had been made by someone recently rather than it being a pristine pre-war antique. There were candles on the nightstand as well, which probably spoke to their energy consumption problem. Perhaps the electricity wasn't very reliable.

Beatrice used the facilities—toilet paper! Dear heaven, she wanted to cry over toilet paper—and splashed water on her face, wondering if Covenant's miraculous stores had any makeup. She'd kill for mascara. Then she smiled at herself in the mirror, rueful. She was here on a mission, not to get dazzled by reminders of what her life once was.

But the illusion truly vanished when she re-entered the bedroom and sat down on the mattress. A glint out of the corner of her eye made her look into the dark corner above the doorway, almost hidden by a high bookshelf, and a chill ran down her spine as she tried to casually look away. There was a camera in the guest room.

"Mrs. Wake?" Mr. Singh's apologetic tone sounded from outside the bedroom door.

Beatrice jumped, startled, then patted her hair into place and opened the door. "Yes? Did you need something?"

"Yes, ma'am. The mayor wanted me to extend you and your husband an invitation to dinner tonight."

Beatrice bit her lip. "I should check in with my husband..." _Weren't we going to sneak around tonight? And we still haven't met with Honest Dan... though Rob is probably doing that now._

"Ah, he has already accepted, ma'am."

"Oh. Good then. What's the time? When is dinner?"

"In a half-hour."

"Nancy?" came Deacon's voice from downstairs.

Mr. Singh hurried to his host duties, and she followed him to the top of the stairs. "Mr. Wake, your wife is just upstairs. Please, let me show you the way."

"No, thank you. I can see her." Deacon's smile grinned up at her from the first floor and she struggled to smile back, thinking about the camera. She'd have to be careful.

"Darling, I was just coming to check on the negotiations," she said as he ascended the stairs.

"Got some papers to look over already," he said in a pleased voice. He reached up to loosen his tie as she opened the door to their room.

"Been a long hike today. Gonna be glad to hit the sack later." He set down his pack near the bed.

When she closed the door behind them, she leaned against it, hoping that her glimpse of the camera had been accurate earlier and she was in its blind spot. "Joey," she said in a breathy voice, heart thudding, "I need you."

Deacon paused in the act of looking around the room, his expression frozen. "Uh, Nance?" His voice was uncertain, and she could tell she'd rattled him. Unfortunately she didn't have time to revel in the rare event of catching him off guard.

She took a step forward, yanking on his lapels and stumbling back so she was against the door again. "Kiss me, Joey," she moaned, then quickly in his ear, "There's a camera in the corner above the door frame."

The tension melted away from him. "Nancy, baby," he said, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of the device, "not sure if we have time for this…"

Beatrice laughed with real relief. "Don't worry. It'll be quick." She snatched the hat off his head and tossed it up, as if in sudden passion, and it hooked onto the black-painted cylinder's face.

"Ooh, just like that, baby," Deacon said, and she had to stifle uncontrollable giggles as he let out a theatrical moan that sounded like a deathclaw in heat. With quick hand signs to communicate and a few more dramatic groans, they swept the room. Beatrice found a vacuum tube-sized gizmo in the radio that shouldn't have been there, and Deacon located another of the devices under the bed. No other cameras, though. They turned the radio up—now listening device free—and kept the devices next to it while they plotted on the other side of the room.

"Rob's going to poke around tonight and make contact with Honest Dan while we schmooze the mayor," Deacon said while the singer on the radio wailed about lost love.

Beatrice nodded. "I was also thinking that I should try to get to know Penny more. She's an obvious gossip if I ever saw one. If something strange has been going on, she's bound to want to talk about it."

"Oh yeah, before I forget..." He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. "I found this in the trash can at Penny's store. Nicked it while they were drooling over the fusion cores."

Beatrice unfolded the paper, which looked like it had been crumpled before tossed in the garbage.

 _A reminder…_

 _Covenant is a safe place. Whatever bad happened to you in the past won't happen here. But we've all got a job to do. We need word-of-mouth to spread so eventually dozens of people a week come through here._

 _So, some guidelines:_

 _* Be welcoming, but don't make visitors uncomfortable_  
 _* Any opportunities to encourage visitors to bring their friends, exploit_  
 _* NEVER talk about synths_  
 _* NEVER talk about the Institute_

"Why are they afraid to talk about the Institute?" Beatrice asked.

"Weird right? It's the favorite topic of conversation everywhere else. I mean, everyone's afraid of the Institute, but this place seems to take it to a new level," he said, frowning thoughtfully. "I'm also betting this note might not have been intended for public consumption. Interesting that it was thrown away. I didn't even really have to dig for it. It was laying right on top."

"Well, the mayor did seem a little upset with her gossip when we walked in. Maybe this note was for Penny herself and she didn't appreciate being singled out."

"Could be, even though it doesn't mention her by name." Deacon pulled out a silver watch on a chain from his waistcoat. "We only have five minutes till dinner. Better get ourselves to rights. They might be expecting us a few minutes late though."  
Beatrice glared at the camera, still with Deacon's fedora hanging off it. "Sick perverts."

"I think it's more than just voyeurism," he said, pulling out a holotape from his inside jacket pocket. "This is a Railroad recruitment tape. I found it in the trash can in common area downstairs. Also? The terminal—a public one—was full of really culty sounding stuff: 'We're a community formed by like-minded individuals' and the SAFE test is so that 'good, quality folk' are the only ones let in. That, plus that note? There's definitely something weird going on here. Dez didn't say anything about us having a recruitment effort here already. But then, she wasn't sure about Amelia's knowledge of Railroad activities either."

He stood, rummaging around in his pack for a fresh tie.

"No, keep the wrinkled one," she said. "It'll sell the act that we… uh…" She blushed and couldn't finish the sentence.

"Got frisky?" he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows behind his sunglasses. "Joined the Railroad? Ran the bases at Diamond City? Supered the Mutant? Brotherhooded the Steel? Became real Minutemen? Ate all the Sugar Bombs?"

" _Deacon!_ " She was shaking with laughter. "That last one doesn't even make sense!"

"I have dozens of these," he said, smug as he re-tied his tie to hang a little bit sloppy. "I could go all night."

"Sixty-minute man are you, now?" The quip left her mouth before her brain could put up a filter, and she clutched her still folded dinner dress to her chest like a shield.

Deacon laughed. "Wouldn't _you_ like to find out?"

Then he froze, as if he too hadn't been completely aware of what he was saying, and they stood staring at each other in a suddenly full silence.

Beatrice's eyes dropped to his mouth. _Abort, abort!_ She darted for the door. "I'm going to change," she squeaked and closed the door behind her, taking a deep breath.

"Atom's irradiated balls," she muttered, fanning her heated face, then walked into the bathroom.


	11. Chapter 11

After changing, Beatrice stood on the landing outside the room, debating on whether Nancy would knock on a door that led to where her husband was. Being awkward with Deacon felt strange. In the early days of their partnership, they'd often ducked into closet-sized spaces to change disguises on Railroad missions without really paying much attention. Now however, she felt almost shy. How was she going to keep hiding her feelings for him? She had to, though. They were here to rescue someone who even now might be in life-threatening danger.

While she stood out on the landing debating with herself, the other bedroom door opposite opened revealing a woman a few years younger in a worn dress and hair pulled messily back by a red ribbon. She saw Beatrice and froze, but then smiled and held a finger to her lips.

"I just put the twins down for a nap, if you don't mind," she said in a hushed voice. "I'm Darlene. My boyfriend Matt is inside—also napping." Good humor danced in her tired brown eyes. "I heard, uh, some activity earlier, so I knew that the other room was occupied. I'm happy I got to meet our guest house neighbors before we leave. I feel like I've been feeding the babies nonstop and haven't had any chance to socialize while we're here."

Beatrice blushed as she imagined what "activity" Darlene must have heard. "Nice to meet you. I'm Nancy. My husband and I are here on business."

"We just stopped here for the night on the way to my sister's place near Lexington," Darlene said. "It's been real nice. I never saw electricity outside Diamond City before. Isn't it something?"

"Yes, it's very nice," Beatrice agreed, then hesitated. "Did you say twins earlier?" she asked in a wistful voice. "How old are they?" _Don't do this to yourself, Beatrice,_ she warned herself. _You always regret it..._

"Two months," Darlene said fondly, but the dark circles under her eyes spoke of many midnight feedings.

"So little." Beatrice's throat tightened. She'd thought she'd cried out all her tears about Shaun. But perhaps she hadn't processed all the emotions, maybe she'd been trying to keep herself busy and on the road so she wouldn't have to. Maybe this place with its scent of pre-war life hanging in the air was affecting her more than it should.

A shivering, tingling feeling in her chest startled her.

"Uh oh," said Darlene, "looks like you're in the same boat I am."

Beatrice felt the let down and looked at the front of her dress in resignation. Sure enough, she'd begun to leak through. "Damnit." For the first few months after getting out of the Vault, she'd done her best to keep her milk coming, determined that when she found Shaun, she would still be able feed him. It wasn't especially difficult, but the soreness, the prickles of pain like hugging a cactus had been harder to deal with. With no baby to feed to relieve the pain, she'd had to manually express the milk. It was the only way to ensure that she kept producing.

Despite her best efforts though, her production was overall down. If— _not if,_ she told herself, _when_ —she found Shaun, she would probably have to find a wet nurse until her own milk got up to speed again.

"I have a few extra cloths if you need them," Darlene said, sympathy in her voice.

"No, no. I don't want to disturb your little ones," Beatrice said. "I have some. I just forgot to put them in." That whole exchange with Deacon had put it clean out of her mind. "Excuse me." She took a bracing breath and walked into the room she shared with Deacon. For a moment they just stared at each other.

"I need a sweater," she said in as steady a voice she could manage, trying to use her arms to shield the blot. Deacon glanced down, saw that she trying to hide something and frowned.

"Are you hurt?" He rose his feet, hurrying to her. "Is that blood?"

"No, I'm fine," she said, shrinking away, but he gently pulled her arm away and for a moment, just stared at the growing wet spot.

"Oh," he said. " _Oh,_ " he repeated, as if just realizing that breast milk was a thing. He looked at her like she had sprouted wings, or become someone he didn't recognize. If she hadn't been on the verge of tears, she would have laughed at his expression.

"It's fine," she said weakly, pulling her arm back. "I was stupid and forgot to put my pads in. I should have brought an extra dress, but my sweater should hide it." She clamped her lips shut, aware that she was babbling; worse, her voice was _shaking_.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking awkward, while Beatrice dug through her pack, then, biting her lip, turned her back on him.

"Could you…" She cleared her throat, "unbutton me?"

"Oh. Right." He came up behind her, his fingers fumbling a little with the buttons, then she could feel the cool air of the room on her back, and a hint of Deacon's warm breath. Then his hands were gone. She inserted the cloth pads into her brassiere with a wince, already starting to feel tender. Hopefully she could make it through dinner and take care of it after. Then she reached awkwardly behind herself. When she'd changed in the bathroom, she'd managed on her own because she'd buttoned a couple of the hardest ones before slipping the dress on, but Deacon had undone them all to the small of her back.

"Here, I'll do them again," he said and his warm fingers gave her goosebumps as they nimbly climbed up her back redoing the buttons. "I, uh, didn't realize you were still, um… doing... that," he said, stepping back.

Beatrice blotted at the wetness at the front of her dress with a handkerchief. "I guess I was hiding it from you. Well, not just you. Everyone. I've been trying to keep it going because Shaun's going to need me… I… I don't think he'd be on solid food yet…" She trailed off at the thought of just how long she'd been in the wasteland, suddenly realizing that Shaun would be crawling by now. She took a deep breath and let it out, wishing the breath hadn't been as shaky as it was. _It's just hormones,_ she told herself, but it didn't help the knifing in her throat.

"Look," Deacon said, sounding concerned, "if you're not up to tonight, if you want to stay in…"

"What? No! It's fine. I'm _fine_. Let's go to dinner and make sure we give Rob time to contact Honest Dan. Every hour we spend not finding Amelia is one in which she could be dying."

He nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced, and after she grabbed her sweater, they hurried out the door.

"I didn't replace the listening devices," he said in a low voice as they crossed the lawn toward the mayor's house, "and I left the hat on the camera. I'll let them decide if they want to confront us openly about that."

"Would they?"

"I'm not sure. We still don't know if they took Amelia and why. So far, all we have is a town full of paranoia—maybe about synths?—and a heavy-handed effort to look as friendly as possible. Even the camera and listening bugs can be a callback to a general fear…. I mean, from a security standpoint, it even makes a certain horrible sense to have them in a room that strangers will be staying in. This is a nice place; you don't see settlements this clean hardly anywhere."

"That SAFE test must not be very reliable then, if visitors go through it and Covenant still has to keep an eye on people that passed it." Beatrice frowned as a thought struck her. "Or… it's not designed to keep 'undesirable people' out as Swanson said. What if it's designed only to identify them?"

"He never actually said we passed anything, did he?" Deacon said thoughtfully. "He just… let us in." Deacon's frown deepened but they couldn't say anything more because they'd arrived at the mayor's house.

"Welcome!" said Jacob as they walked up the porch steps. "A little fashionably late, I see, but with a wife like that, I can see how you might have gotten distracted." He chuckled, giving Deacon a nudge. Deacon smiled a serene smile that Beatrice knew hid a desire to throttle someone. It was usually the one he reserved for Carrington. "Speaking of our better halves, this is my wife, Maria." He gestured at a woman standing further inside the house with gray hair and a smile that looked like it had been painted on. She nodded curtly then turned to her husband.

"Jacob," she said in a strained voice. "The food is growing colder than it already is, let's get our guests in and sit down."

 _Irritated about our lateness and trying to be polite? Beatrice wondered. Or was she ordered to be polite so as not scare potential business partners off?_ Trying to parse the possible motivations of people she'd only just met was getting exhausting. If she wasn't careful, she'd be as paranoid as the rest of the town seemed to be. She reminded herself that their job tonight was to make nice; play up the traders interested in making a good business deal while Rob and Dan met up and exchanged information. If the mayor happened to give anything more away, that would have to be bonus.

Dinner was radstag steaks with a drizzle of tart tarberry sauce, roasted, caramelized carrots, and a loaf of dark nutty razorgrain bread—all a little lukewarm but tasty. Maria also offered wine but Beatrice declined. She wasn't great at holding her liquor as it tended to make her head fuzzy, which was the last thing she needed during a mission.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Orden," Beatrice said. "Everything is delicious."

Maria's expression softened. "Thank you, dear. It's nice to have guests to cook for."

"Have you had a chance to go over the contracts yet?" Jacob asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

"Jacob, must we really talk business at the table?" Maria said, frowning.

He cast her a narrow-eyed glance. "We've almost finished eating, and if our guests don't mind, I don't."

Maria pursed her lips, but didn't protest any further.

"Going to go over them tonight," Deacon said. "We, ah, ran out of time before dinner."

Jacob laughed. "I bet you did."

Beatrice hid her grimace behind her napkin. This place reminded her of the pre-war days in bad ways too, and the little nudges and winks at her expense were getting on her frayed nerves. She was supposed to be the senior partner of the business, not Deacon, who always preferred the more silent, observant roles. But she had to play along if this was what Jacob expected. The eating portion of dinner had only lasted a half hour. Rob surely needed more time than that and if she made a fuss, things might end too quickly.

"Mrs. Orden," she said, making an effort to smile. They wanted what they thought were pre-war manners, so that's what she'd give them. "You have a lovely house. Tell me, how do you manage to keep so clean? Why, it costs Joey and me a fortune to get just our clothes as clean and crisp as I've seen here."  
Maria straightened with pride. "Oh, it takes hard work for sure. But I find that if I take a little time away from my other duties to set aside for housekeeping, I can keep the dirt out of most everything."

 _What 'other duties'?_ Beatrice wondered, though Maria didn't elaborate.

"As for clothes, a few other women have taken up making new clothes or sort of upgrading old ones, so it isn't always us getting lucky with pre-war finds. Then of course, with all the traders that have started coming along, we get some nicer things too. Here's a secret: after you've purified the water for washing, add just a little squeeze of mutfruit juice along with your Abraxo and then wash the clothes."

"Doesn't that stain them?"

"Not if you have the ratio right. Then let them dry out in the sun; the juice brightens colors somehow."

There was a creak in the back of the house, which made both of the Ordens look up.

"We've been hearing the rumors about Covenant as a great place to get deals," Deacon said suddenly, surprising her. He hadn't initiated a conversation all through dinner. "That's why Nancy and I decided to see for ourselves. Why, wasn't it a few days ago that we stopped at Vault 81 to see Fred and they said he was headed here?"

"Fred?" Jacob's brow furrowed. "A, uh, friend of yours?"

"Fred O'Connell? Oh you know us caravan types," Beatrice said with a careless laugh. Why was Deacon poking the yao guai? "It's a rough and tumble family, but we sort of all know each other. It's the business, you know? I thought for sure we'd meet him coming back, but we didn't see him."  
Jacob cleared his throat. "Well, the roads are dangerous, as I'm sure you're aware. I don't think your Mr. O'Connell made it here. Certainly, I've never heard the name before."

"Oh?" She kept her voice light and unconcerned as if unaware of the growing tension in the room. "That's a shame. Good man; runs a fair business. But, as you say, the roads are dangerous. Hopefully he's safe in a home beside a warm fire, enjoying such wonderful food as we are. Maybe I misheard at Vault 81. Mrs. Orden, I was just going to ask about your dress. Is that one you made or did you buy it?"

It took all of Beatrice's concentration and pre-war charm to keep the conversation going along less dangerous lines. Both men went out for a smoke break at one point, while Beatrice helped clear the table and set out mugs for after-dinner coffee. The conversation waned then. Her breasts were sore and full, and she was having trouble paying attention to a discussion about farming and how unseasonably warm it had been when they still didn't know where Amelia was.  
She wondered if Old Man Stockton had trouble sleeping thinking about his missing daughter the way Beatrice sometimes stayed up, wondering if Shaun was safe and happy.

"Thanks for the hospitality, Mayor Orden," said Deacon. "But I think we'd better turn in if we're going to give those papers a look over tonight."

"Of course, of course," said Jacob, rising from his chair and shaking Deacon's hand. "A pleasure having you over."

"Good night, Mrs. Orden. Mr. Mayor," Beatrice said, then was briefly surprised when Deacon took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, pulling her to his side.

"Ah, young love!" Jacob said with another chuckle as they walked down the porch and back toward the guest house.

"Think we'll blow our cover if I deck him?" asked Deacon conversationally.

"It might be worth it," Beatrice agreed, squeezing his bicep gently. "What was this for?"

"You looked tired," he said, then fell silent, a bit of pink staining his cheeks.

"I'm a little sore," she admitted, then it was her turn to blush. The honest admission had come without any thought—though it wasn't really the type of thing you say to a best male friend, perhaps even especially to a male friend that you had feelings for. Even among women the conversation was sometimes vague and circumspect: annoyingly so, she had found before the war. Everyone was so afraid of being indelicate, but Beatrice found the attitude maddening. How would any new mother ever know what was normal and what wasn't if no one talked about it?

Then she decided she didn't care if Deacon knew her breasts were sore. He'd already seen her leaking through clothes. Perhaps it was time he saw her as more than just a partner who was good at doing Railroad ops, but a living, breathing woman. She made a face and looked down to hide it. Living and breathing, yes, but breastmilk wasn't exactly sexy.

"Oh," he said, sounding at a loss. "Do you… uh… have a way to take care of it? So you're not… um, in pain?"

"Yes, but it might take awhile."

"Why don't I meet with Rob and find out what he was able to glean tonight, and I'll fill you in when I get back?"

"Would you?" she asked, surprised at herself. She normally wanted to be on the front lines with this stuff. But… she was tired, and the soreness in her breasts had only reminded her anew that she had no baby to carry. Perhaps the stress of the day had been too much for her. Then again… she'd gotten like this the last time she'd been near a baby. Right after she'd met Deacon, before she really knew anything about him except that he was a Railroad intel specialist, she'd gone back to Sanctuary to check in on things. A new family with a baby had arrived in Sanctuary while she'd been away and the little girl's cries had woken her up in the middle of the night, aching and trying not to sob for the absolute misery of missing Shaun.

She shouldn't have chatted with Darlene.

"Yeah," he said, stopping at the door to the guest house. "Go on in, Nancy," he said in normal voice for anyone else that might be listening. "I'm going to take a smoke."

"Alright, Joey."

She watched him go around the side of the house, closer to the wall, cigarette already in hand and went up the stairs. Then she stopped on the landing, hand tightening on the rail as her stomach knotted.

The twins in the other room were crying.

* * *

Note: I'd been thinking about what a breastfeeding Sole Survivor would have to deal with for awhile. I don't think I've ever seen it addressed in fanfiction, so I was happy to have an excuse to bring it in here. Thanks to my writing buddy Melody for helping with the details on the not-so-fun parts of lactating. The line about hugging a cactus is straight from her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut against the barrage of mewling cries coming from behind the closed door of the other room.  
Before she'd had Shaun, she hadn't much noticed other babies crying except to be annoyed if it was too loud in a public space. But after she'd gotten pregnant, and especially after Shaun was born, every sound a baby made was as if it was being transported directly into her ears. A baby cooed and her head would whip around; cry and her lungs would seize up, her breasts aching. She used to have perfectly normal breasts that did nothing more annoying than sometimes getting out of position if she turned a certain way, but pregnancy hormones had turned her into a leaky faucet. At least before the bombs she could have those feelings and then go cuddle Shaun or feed him and relax in that bond. She'd done that a lot when Nate started leaving the house more frequently to meet his lover.

 _Go inside the room and go to bed,_ she told herself. Instead, she went and tapped on Darlene's door.

After a moment, the young woman answered, looking tired red-eyed. "I'm sorry, this isn't a good time."

"Do you need help?" Beatrice asked quietly.

Darlene bit her lip and opened the door a bit wider as she turned to look back in the room. Beatrice could see the boyfriend pacing back and forth with a small wailing bundle in his arms. "I'm out of milk," Darlene admitted. "It happens sometimes with twins. Normally I'm in a settlement and we can get brahmin milk to supplement, but the store is closed and Naomi is still hungry and I don't know what to do." Her lip quivered.

Beatrice took a breath. "I'm full, if you need a second nurser."

Darlene's expression lightened with hope, then she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I don't know you…"

Beatrice took off her sweater, rolling up the thin sleeves of her dress. "No needle marks, or scars," she said. "I don't use chems. I don't smoke, and I didn't have any alcohol tonight."

Darlene looked carefully at Beatrice's clear arms and nodded slowly. "What… what about your baby? Don't you need to feed them?"

Beatrice sucked in breath like she'd been punched in the gut. "My… my baby was stolen from me. By the Institute." Her voice cracked.  
Darlene's eyes widened and behind her, little Naomi's cries reached a new pitch. That seemed to be the breaking point. Darlene nodded and opened the door wider. The boyfriend looked up wearily.

"Matt, can you take Tommy and walk him around outside for a bit? Just till we get Naomi settled. Don't want to make him any more upset."

"Sure," he said, looking at Beatrice with tired eyes. "You know something about babies, ma'am?"

"A little," she said, smiling.

Darlene took the squalling infant from Matt, and the child immediately began rooting around on her, searching for food. Tearfully, Darlene passed her to Beatrice, who waited only so that Matt had left the room with the other twin before cradling the child close, smelling the soft, unmistakable milky scent of a baby, and then, making sure Naomi was secure on her lap, reached behind to unbutton her dress.

#

Later, Beatrice sat on the floor of the room she shared with Deacon, hair falling in straggling strands around her face. She was half undressed, but her bag was on the far side of the room. It may as well have been on Mars. She kept trying to tell herself to get up, to get the bag, and find her pajamas, but her body did not seem to want to move.

She wasn't sore any more. Little Naomi had been hungry, and Beatrice's milk production wasn't what it had been when Shaun had been newly born. Still, it had been enough for the child. She was empty, both of milk and of… Her mind blanked. She was just empty. She had to be. Otherwise, she would think of giving Naomi back to her mother, sated and sleepy and soft, like Shaun had been. She would start probing that bleeding void in her heart and fall in and never come out.

She knew she had to change out of her milk-stained dress, but that bag was still too far away. Maybe just her underwear? But her bra was soaked and needed to be washed and the room was too chilled to make underwear alone a comfortable alternative. The corner of her eye caught on Deacon's pack, which was within arm's reach, and saw the edge of a sleeve that was poking out of it. His flannel shirt. Her movements jerky and fitful, like she'd forgotten how to use her arms, she tugged the corner of the shirt free and it fell into her lap. It smelled like him: faint cigarette smoke, gun oil, an undercurrent of hubflower soap, and something deeper that was probably just sweat, but immediately made her think _Deacon_. It was reasonably clean and soft, so she shrugged out of the rest of her dress, flung off her bra into a corner and buttoned herself into the shirt, feeling some tension leave her. She didn't want to think, didn't want to feel, didn't want to move, but the floor was growing harder, so she forced her limbs to crawl her to the bed and climb into it. Perhaps she would stay there forever.

Only a few minutes later, the door opened and Deacon came inside. He went still at the sight of her curled up on the bed in his shirt.

On an ordinary night, Beatrice might have blushed and stammered out an explanation, but tonight was… too much. She just stared at him, feeling blank, and he came in and shut the door. Without a word, he went about rechecking the room, switching on the radio and making sure there were no new listening devices. She watched as he took off his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, then leaned down to untie his shoes and kick them off. He sat on the edge of the bed, his sunglasses flickering in the candlelight coming from the nightstand.

"Are you sick?" He leaned over to put his hand on her forehead.

"No."

"What's wrong, Beatrice?"

The sound of her name in his mouth broke her.

"I want my baby," she wept, voice cracking, and the floods came pouring out.

And that was it; the plain unvarnished truth that she had been hiding from for three months. She'd known she wanted Shaun back more than anything—it was the reason that got her out of bed in this new world. But as the weeks passed and leads became cold and more responsibility fell on her shoulders, she had been forced to set aside her main goal, to get involved with real things affecting the people of the Commonwealth. She cared about them; she really did… but people tired of hearing about a missing baby. They were sympathetic, of course, but their babies weren't missing and their problems more immediate, and more easily solved.

So she'd stopped talking about Shaun, letting people think she was healing, that she was optimistic about his recovery, never letting on that part of the reason she stayed on the move was so she didn't have to witness other mothers with their babies while her arms remained empty. Finding Kellogg, the first real connection to what had happened in the vault, and a chance at retrieving Shaun had been the first time she'd allowed herself to dwell publicly on that, and it had almost ended her. She didn't remember killing Kellogg. She remembered confronting him, then nothing; a total blackout until waking up covered in blood while Nick struggled to carry her out of Fort Hagan.

As the shudders and sobs started to ebb, she realized Deacon was laying next to her, holding her, stroking her hair. She hadn't even noticed he'd moved and now she was clinging to him like a raft in a storm-tossed sea.

"I… I'm sorry about your shirt," she sniffed, pulling back slightly to look at him.

"Which one?" he said, cracking a smile, indicating the tear stains on both of them. A watery chuckle escaped her.

"Both?"

"Hmm. Yeah. Gonna have to see if this fancy place does laundry I guess," he said.

She tucked her head back under his chin and closed her eyes, just listening to the steady beat of his heart.

She made a decision.

"I want to tell you about Nate."

His hand stilled, then resumed stroking her hair. "It's okay, Whisp. You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, I do. You're my best friend, Dee. I want you to know this."

She told him about first seeing Nate, handsome in his uniform at the Slocum's Joe; talked about how pleased she was to find out her parents were negotiating with his for the marriage, and how excited she was to actually get married and start a family. "I was going to join a law practice, he would finish his schooling, and we would have children, and be happy. We'd have… everything," she said, then paused. "Then… the wedding day came." For some reason it wasn't as hard to tell this part, as if she'd already told him before. Perhaps it was just the odd lack of fear and shame she no longer felt about the memory. There was, perhaps, the old echo of those feelings, but they wilted under the relentless pressure of daily survival.

Or maybe it was because it was Deacon, and she trusted him and there was no more room for fear. No, it wasn't just trust… it was something more; something deeper. She wanted to tell him everything, to show him the pieces of herself that were broken, and she wanted him to feel safe enough with her that he could show her his broken pieces as well. Not so they could fix the broken parts, but so they could prop each other up as they lived life in spite of them.

Deacon drew in a breath when she told him about Nate's coming out out to her. "Whisp… Shit, I'm so sorry."

She gave another watery laugh. "That wasn't even the worst part. The worst was later, when I convinced myself that we could still be a somewhat normal family, that we could still have it all, that he would be faithful to me, despite having never touched me. I was such an idiot."

"He… he cheated on you?"

"With some man whose name I never wanted to know."

"He had no right." His grip on her tightened. "I don't care who he liked. Hell, he _married_ you. Didn't that mean anything?"

"Not enough, apparently," she said in a quiet voice. She sighed. "I should have left him; I should have filed for divorce and damn the shame and dishonor it would have brought to my parents and his. We would have both been happier. Instead, I insisted on a child, as if… as if Shaun would be the magical bandaid to solve everything." She closed her eyes. "I was so stupid."

"Pre-War stuff sounds almost as messed up as this timeline."

"It had its moments for sure."

He continued stroking her hair. It was intoxicating, this feeling of safety in his arms, next to his warmth. When was the last time she'd felt so utterly at home?

"How..." He cleared his throat. "Can I ask an indelicate question?"

That startled a laugh out of her. "You? Worried about being diplomatic?"

"I can be tactful and sensitive and… and all that other stuff!" he protested, pulling back slightly to look at her. "Your Honor, my reputation has been grossly maligned."

She laughed into his shirt again. "Proceed with your question, counsel."

"Um… So. Shaun. Did you…uh, did Nate…"

She blinked at him innocently. "That wasn't a question."

He groaned. "Come on, don't make me say it."

She took pity on him. "No, we didn't. Back then, there were special doctors for couples that were having problems conceiving. We pretended that was our situation. So if you imagine a turkey baster full of semen being pumped into me, then you're not too far off the mark."

"Eww." Deacon made a face. "Wait, what's a turkey baster?"

"I'll draw you a picture."

He scrunched up his nose and shook his head, his chin rubbing her hair with the motion. "Nope. No thanks, I think my imagination is enough." He paused and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. "So, can I ask… .where does Rob fit into this?"  
She blushed, but told him how after Nate's confession, she'd left the hotel for a shooting range where she'd met Rob, and what that lead to.

"Oh," he said, suddenly relaxed again. "So he wasn't your lover, he was just a… rebound sort of?"

Sense and memory suddenly returned to Beatrice and she gasped. "Rob? Oh no, the mission—"

"No, it's fine," he said, still stroking her hair. "Rob left a note. We arranged a dead drop under a rock near the wall in case this happened. His note said he was investigating a lead and would meet us in an hour to move things forward. Don't worry. We'll catch up with him." Deacon paused. "I think, after this mission, you'll need to take a break. A little vacation from helping everyone but yourself. We'll go away for a bit. No Railroad. No Institute. You… jumped right into things after Kellogg didn't you?"

"I had to," she breathed, barely audible.

"Yeah, I get that, believe me I do." His voice was soft. "But you don't have to go it alone all the time, you know?"

Was it her imagination or was he holding her tighter?

"Your boy—your Shaun is alive. And together we'll find him. I'll be there every step of the way. That's a promise, Whisper."

"Say my name."

His hand stilled on her hair.

"Beatrice," he said hoarsely, and she shivered, pulling back from his shoulder to look him in the eye. Or rather, the sunglasses.

Staring at him, Beatrice realized this was one of the moments Piper warned her about. This was when she should push him away and gain that professional distance.

But she didn't want professional distance. She wanted _him_.

Her hand moved to his sunglasses and paused. He didn't so much as twitch or make a sound to stop her, so she slowly eased them off his face.

* * *

Note: My fabulous beta Quinzelade made a Spotify playlist for this story! You can find it on Spotify under the title "Beacon" by blue_sigma.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"No wonder you hide them," she murmured, her thumb tracing the tan line his glasses had made, touching the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. "You'll give everything away."

Deacon's eyes were light grayish blue, and they were so open and vulnerable that her heart fluttered. Looking at him like this for the first time was more intimate than she expected. She was short of breath.

He cleared his throat, but his eyes were roaming all over her face, as if he'd never seen her before. "Yeah. Hard to be an intel specialist when everyone sees your baby blues looking all puppy dog. It really undermines the whole spy thing."

"Deacon," she said, and his eyes came to rest on her mouth, so she tilted her chin up just enough until her lips brushed his.

A shudder wracked his body, she felt a soft puff of air against her mouth, and then he kissed her. This wasn't the urgent kiss of Goodneighbor, it was achingly tender and soft, as if he was afraid she would disappear, as if he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth, the taste of her.

"Beatrice," he murmured again, his voice husky, then he was deepening the kiss, becoming more desperate, his tongue parting her lips, diving in until she was gasping, clutching at his arms, plucking at the hem of his shirt. She had to know: was he as feverish as she felt? Like her skin was dry grass, his mouth a spark setting her ablaze? She managed to untuck his shirt from his pants and smoothed her palm across his stomach even as her leg curled up around his, pulling him closer to her.

"I really hope you're straight," she managed to gasp, when his lips left her mouth to leave a trail of sparks down her neck.

His response was to blow a raspberry on her throat that made her squeak in surprised laughter. Somehow they'd flipped so instead of side by side, Deacon was bearing her down into the bed, the press of his hips against hers igniting molten fire in her blood. One of his hands trailed to the knee she had wrapped around his waist, sliding up her thigh and resting against her hip, fingers toying with the band of her underwear. She swallowed hard as warmth pooled in her belly, kissing him with heated fervor. Then he paused, pulling back slightly, his forehead resting against hers.

"What's wrong?" Her head was spinning with the want of him.

"We… can't," he said, the words sounding forced through gritted teeth. "Dez will _kill_ us. Hell, we're in the middle of a mission and…" He took a breath and let it out slowly. "You've had a rough night. I can't… take advantage of that, no matter how much… shit, you're not even wearing a bra…" He pulled away with a groan and sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose, leaving her suddenly chilled without his body close by. "No matter how much I _really_ want to."

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him Dez and the mission could go to hell, but she knew that wasn't true, that she wouldn't mean it even if she said it.

And she really wanted to say it.

Damn the man and his surprising common sense. She _was_ emotionally spent after the evening she'd had, and if she was honest, she may have been using her feelings for Deacon to let her float away from dealing with the pain. Even now, through the haze of arousal, she was aware of how tired she was, how much she just wanted to forget the fact her baby was gone by hiding in his his arms.

But that wasn't fair to him. And, if she was honest with herself, it wasn't healthy for her. It would be Rob all over again, using a brief moment of happiness to smother the terrible things in her life. She didn't want to mess this up with him, even if her libido was screaming at her.

"Please say something," he pled.

"I think…" she said, still waiting for her heart to cease thundering in her chest as she raised herself up on an elbow. "That one of us needs to sleep somewhere else tonight because otherwise I'm going to jump your bones and that pretty speech you just made won't mean a thing."

He laughed. "Well _you_ definitely need to get out of that shirt. Hell, woman, I almost had a heart attack when I saw you wearing it."

Looking at Deacon's eyes—bare to the light and as pale as a noon sky—was as intimate as looking at him naked, which was why, when he slipped them back on, she felt as if he'd turned his back to her.

"Whisp," he said, his expression going somber. "You know we can't do this. This can't happen again."

"Don't," she said, voice trembling, sitting up fully. "Don't do this. Not after… God, are you lying right now? Are you? Because if you're trying to pull one of your stunts, I swear…"

"No, no," he said, raising his hands. "I promise I'm being honest right now. I just…" He ran a hand over his head. "I'm too old for you."

Beatrice stared at him, then couldn't stop the snort of laughter that escaped her. "Is that all?"

"Well there is the other matter of Dez literally murdering us if she finds out—"

"How old are you?"

"Sixty-five."

"Try again."

"Forty-two." He winced.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Fifteen years."

"That doesn't seem too old for you?" Deacon's voice cracked in disbelief.

"I'm a grown woman," she said, frowning. "I know what I want, and what I want is you."

His shoulders hunched like she'd hit him. "You don't know who am," he said in a hoarse voice. "Not… not the real me. If you knew… you'd probably run out of this room."

She crawled to the side of the bed and sat beside him, turning his chin toward her. "Never," she said in a firm voice.

He swallowed hard. "I'm a liar," he said, sounding frayed. "A lying fraud."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But you're still _my_ lying fraud." She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. "And one of these days we're going to smooch whenever we feel like it."

His mouth twitched in a weak grin. "'Smooch'?"

"Smooch. It's an underused word in the vocabulary of kissing. I'm bringing it back."

He laughed and for a moment, she thought he was going to reach for her, but then he took off his sunglasses, fiddling with them. Swallowing hard, he looked at her and she could see pain and grief in his eyes that took her breath away. "Beatrice… You've put up with my bullshit time and time again. I don't always show it, but I appreciate it. I need to tell you something about me. About who I really am."

A tap at the glass to their window made them both jump. Deacon put on his sunglasses and walked to the window, looking down. "It's Honest Dan," he said, sounding relieved. "I mean, it's hard to tell in the dark, but it's either him or Rob has suddenly grown a lot of hair in the past couple of hours."

They scurried around the room, grabbing clothes more suited to clandestine activities. Other than her business attire and evening dress, Beatrice had only brought one other outfit besides "Nancy Wake" clothes: a dark, long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans.

She started unbuttoning Deacon's flannel shirt.

He watched her for a moment, his face going slack, but soon realized she didn't care if he saw her undress and whipped around, ears pink. Smirking, she tossed the shirt over his head and he swore. "I am trying to be presentable here, and you're _really_ not helping. Honest Dan is going to think I like him a lot more than I actually do."

She began to hum Sixty Minute Man.

"Super mutants," he grumbled to himself. "Those foul meat sacks they leave laying around… Carrington's smug face. Ferals who've been marinating in raw sewage for a century… 'Claws. Ugh. Hate deathclaws... That one time I thought it would be a good idea to hide in a dumpster…"

"I'm dressed," she said, laughing.

He twitched but didn't turn around.

"I promise! I'm serious now."

He risked a glance over his shoulder, saw that she was indeed dressed and turned fully. "I think I'm disappointed."

"I'll wait for you and your disappointment downstairs." She blew a kiss then left the room, checking to make sure Deliverer was loaded and tucked into its holster at her hip. The house outside the landing was quiet. Beatrice glanced at Darlene and Matt's door then quickly away and stepped lightly down the staircase, grateful to be in sneakers instead of heels. She looked for Mr. Singh, ready to make an excuse, but the space under the door leading to his apartment was dark, so he at least would not notice their comings and goings. She wasn't sure exactly what time it was—without her Pip-Boy's clock she quickly lost all sense of the hours passing—but it had to be late. The town outside was quiet, but several electric lights were still burning outside the houses, little beacons of welcome in the darkness. For a moment, that ache returned: the one she'd felt upon seeing Covenant for the first time. But she shut her eyes against it, reminding herself that this was not home, and a few electric bulbs and running water should not make her so nostalgic.

She crept carefully around the back of the guesthouse to where their upstairs window overlooked the back of the house, and saw Honest Dan's large figure pacing.

"Psst, Dan," she hissed. "It's me, Beatrice. I'm with Rob and… Preston. He's coming just behind me."

"There you are!" He took a couple of big strides toward her. "What the hell is going on?" his lowered voice rang with frustration. "Rob said he'd meet me here! I thought he was supposed to be some detective, and he talked you two up like you were covered in caps, but this operational security shit doesn't work for me. I don't like being kept in the dark."

Beatrice stood in stunned silence for a moment, then Deacon appeared at her elbow. "What'd I miss?" he asked, glancing back and forth between them.

"Rob's gone missing."

Deacon frowned. "He was at the Orden house a couple of hours ago, but he left a note saying he was investigating a lead."

Beatrice glanced at him. "Rob was at the Mayor's house while we were?"

"You didn't hear someone creeping around? They sure did, or at least they heard something. I think I managed to distract them—they didn't go up and start looking for an intruder, anyway. I thought he made it out clean." He turned to Honest Dan. "When I read Rob's note, I thought you'd be with him." He rubbed a hand over his head in clear frustration.

"I did see Rob after he was in the Mayor's house," Honest Dan confirmed, his voice calmer now. "And he did say that he had a lead. He said he chatted up some girl—the local mechanic or something: Talia McGovern. Apparently she's known to get friendly with caravan guards?" He shook his head. "I questioned her but she just fluttered away muttering about tools and stuff. We were supposed to go together to dig into this lead he had, but he never showed up at our meeting spot."

"What did Rob learn?" Beatrice pressed.

He grimaced. "He got Talia to admit something interesting: the SAFE test is supposed to keep out synths."

Deacon went still. "Synths," he repeated.

"Yeah, but I guess not the robot-looking ones?" Honest Dan, waved a hand vaguely in the air. "The ones that look human."

"No wonder they didn't make Rob take it," Beatrice said. "The Institute hasn't ever made a ghoul-lookalike, have they?"

"Not that we've ever seen or heard of," Deacon said, his face troubled.

Beatrice blew out a breath. The Railroad tape that Deacon had found; this Talia revealing the true purpose of the SAFE test; the note he'd found reminding Penny not to talk about the Institute or synths. They needed answers.

"I think I need to talk to Penny tonight," she said. "And I have an idea how I can do it."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Beatrice rapped on the back door leading to Penny and Brian's apartment over the store, wearing the dress she'd worn to dinner, complete with wet blotches on the chest. The original stains had mostly dried, but it wasn't anything a little water couldn't fix.

"Who is it?" Brian's voice asked behind the door. She heard the knob turn. "Jacob? Has something—" He broke off when he saw Beatrice standing there, and his eyes darkened. "Mrs. Wake. It's very late. Can I help you?"

She bit her lip, letting her chin wobble. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald, but it's Penny I need. A… a woman problem." She delicately indicated the stains on her dress, and his face twitched.

"Brian?" came Penny's nervous voice from further inside. "Who is it?"

"Mrs. Wake. She needs your help with a female thing," he said, sounding irritated.

Penny, eyes bright with curiosity and wearing a green robe over pajama pants, came to the door. The minute she saw Beatrice's stained front, she gasped. "Oh you poor dear! I bet you're just soaked through, aren't you?"

Beatrice nodded, for it was true. She'd put her wet, uncomfortable bra back on to get this job done. "I thought I was almost done with the spontaneous leaks," she murmured, crossing her arms and ducking her head as if embarrassed. "I have caps. I can pay… I just didn't pack as many pads as I should, and tonight at the mayor's house, I thought I would be fine… but then…"

"Let's get to the store, sweetie," Penny said, grabbing what sounded like a set of keys from a little table next to the door. "It's fine, Brian," she snapped as her husband leaned closer to say something to her. "It's just to the store." She left the apartment, rolling her eyes. "Men don't understand these things, do they?"

"My husband thought I should wait," Beatrice said, waiting as Penny unlocked the store at the front of the house. "So I did. I waited until he was asleep."

Penny grinned conspiratorially and ushered her inside. "I knew I liked you!" She bustled around behind the counter, unlocking drawers. "Now, let's see what I have. I know I have several ladies things, though sizes are limited, I'm afraid. Pads for leaking shouldn't be a problem, if you don't mind scrap cloth. It's clean."

"Not at all. It's been so annoying," Beatrice said, trying to get the conversation going again. She had to lead this a certain way… Part of her felt a little sick, using her own tragedy to manipulate this woman, but if it saved Amelia's life, it would be worth it.

Wouldn't it?

"Oh, I remember it well, sweetie," Penny said, emerging from a drawer with three different bras and two clean cloth pads. "Now, go try these on behind Doc Patricia's curtain there. She won't mind."

"Do you have children?" Beatrice asked, going across the room to the doctor's little corner. She went behind the foldable privacy screen, though if she angled herself right, she could still see Penny through the cracks. She'd stationed herself behind the counter apparently out of habit and was fiddling with lining up some of the boxes of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes.

"Yes… I mean, no," Penny said, her face pinched with grief. "Not… not anymore."

Beatrice tried on the first one. Far too small. "Can I asked what happened?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Oh, it was a long time ago, sweetie. You don't want to hear an old, sad story."

Beatrice tried the second. A little tight with the pads in, but not uncomfortably so, which was probably the best she was going to get in the Wasteland.

"I…" Beatrice cleared her throat as she pulled her dress back on and clumsily did the buttons on the back as best she could. "I have a child too," she said in a soft voice. "Shaun. He… it wasn't that long ago, that's why I'm still leaking." She came around the curtain, watching Penny closely. "He was taken by the Institute."

Penny's face crumpled. "Oh. Oh you poor, poor dear." She dabbed at her eyes with her robe sleeve. "You do know what it's like, don't you?" She sniffed. "Brian says I'm not supposed to talk about it, but men just don't know how these things weigh on a mother's mind." She paused, and Beatrice waited. "Our boy—our Sammy—was sixteen when he was taken by the Institute… but he came back."

Beatrice sucked in a breath. "He was replaced?"

Penny nodded, eyes darting to the door as if someone would show up and tell her off her for talking about it. "I don't know exactly when or how it happened, but it wasn't him. I knew immediately. Mothers know these things. He was… different. No one believed me. Said I was imagining things." She laughed, a short harsh bark. "Then… the Not-Sammy went and killed three people in the settlement before Brian had to put a bullet in his head."

"Oh, Penny," Beatrice breathed. This was real trauma hiding behind the cheery veneer of the town. Why? Why did Penny pretend like she was happy, like an advertisement for a pre-war sitcom?

"That's why we came here," Penny said, her face suddenly as hard as carved marble. "People like that Mr. Dan only want to stir up trouble. What would he know about keeping everyone safe? He doesn't know. We do. The mayor does. The Compound keeps us safe, and if the Compound did do something to his precious caravan, they had reasons for it."

 _There it is,_ Beatrice thought, hardly daring to breathe, focusing on keeping her expression concerned. _Now I just have to get her to talk about this "Compound."_

"That's enough, Penny."

Beatrice jumped, turning, but in two quick strides, Brian Fitzgerald's arms were around her, his hand coming up to cover her nose and mouth with a sopping handkerchief that smelled of something foul.

"No!" Penny shrieked. "Don't hurt her!"

Beatrice stomped hard on the man's foot, but he only grunted and pressed harder against her face. Whatever was on it was burning her eyes, and she was running out of air; she needed to breathe. She tried to claw at him, but he'd somehow pinned her arms with his own, and she had to breathe, and the room was starting to spin. She was going to be sick… she tossed her head back, and heard a muffled curse, but it was too late. Her head was floating away from her...

"Oh no, no, no, no," Penny moaned, somewhere far away. "Why did you do that, Brian?"

"You told her about the Compound," Brian snapped, his voice sounding wrapped in cotton. "Damnit, I think she busted my lip…"

"She isn't a synth!" Penny hissed, and the words followed Beatrice down, down, down into a dark, damp pit.

#

Beatrice awoke smelling like the sewer, her dress damp at the hem. But her mind was fuzzy and she had a hard time remembering why this would be strange. She didn't move, didn't open her eyes, suddenly and horribly aware of saliva gathering in the back of her mouth, nausea swirling in her gut. She was going to be sick.

To distract herself from the sensation—maybe if she concentrated hard enough it would fade—she focused on what she could hear.

Voices. Very close. In the same room as she was.

"... why did you talk to Talia?"

"Why is your mother so ugly?"

The second voice was raspy, as if the person had been smoking nonstop every day of his life. Why was it familiar? Maybe she could concentrate better if her head wasn't pounding so much.

A beat of silence, then a rustle of movement and a grunt of pain.

"Not bad, smoothskin," gasped the raspy voice. "You almost have what it takes to be Skinny Malone's hairdresser."

The other voice sounded frustrated. "I don't understand why you won't even answer basic questions. What possible gain do you have from hiding it? Who are you protecting?"

The ghoul laughed.

 _Rob,_ Beatrice thought, her eyes snapping open. She was facing a concrete block wall covered in utility pipes. Unfortunately, she'd been underground enough to get an idea of where she was: maintenance tunnels of a sewer system. A strong sickly metallic smell surrounded her, and she breathed through her mouth. _Rob,_ she thought again. _Rob was… missing? And I…_ Memories of Penny's grief and Brian's hard face surfaced, and she grit her teeth against a renewed surge of nausea.

"Maybe I just like shooting the breeze," Rob said, still chuckling. Another rustle of movement. "Ah, a little lower? I got this itch, see..."

There was a horrible wet crack, and Rob's chuckle abruptly cut off with a strangled choking sound.

"Teeth, eh? Now we're getting somewhere." Someone spit and she heard a small clack of something hitting the floor. "Good job, kid. I might let you in on the secret now."

"Finally," the other voice said, sounding satisfied. "Who are you working for?"

"Heh. Kid, I wasn't talking about those kinds of secrets… I'm going to tell you why anything you do to my ugly mug won't be near as bad as what I got ahead of me."

There was a pause. "What do you mean?"

Rob's chuckle this time was dark. "I used to work for Skinny Malone… ah, you've heard of him. He'll be so pleased that rinkadink scammers like yourself know his name. But back to me… see, you don't leave the Triggerman gang. Not without a price. But ghouls are different from humans. Our skin regularly decides to fall off; our eyes turn black; we watch our smoothskin friends die while we live on and on and on. See Skinny doesn't mind ghouls; took a lot of us in after the Diamond City exodus. He knows us; knows the one thing we're scared to lose." His voice dropped. "Our sanity. So when I skipped town, Skinny got some of his boys to rough me up—and let me tell ya, kid, it takes a lot to rough up a ghoul—and dragged my bleeding carcass to the Glowing Sea and dropped me in a lake." Rob barked another dark laugh. "Fortunately for me, I can swim. But that much radiation is bad news for ghouls; 'specially pre-war ghouls like myself. So you see kid, I'm a ticking time bomb. Any minute now, I could go feral. Just. Like. _That_." There was a sound of a chair being hastily scooted back, and Rob laughed again.

"Fucking coward," he spat. "You spend all day using your little knife on civilians, people who will tell you anything to get the pain to stop. You ain't never had a real challenge." His voice turned thoughtful. "And you really don't know how to restrain ghouls… see these handcuffs you put around my wrists? They're old; probably as old as I am, and it's damp down here and they've been sweat on, bled on, probably pissed on, and the links have gotten rusty... and ghouls are a lot stronger than you think."

She heard a grunt of effort then a metallic crack, she rolled over just in time to see Rob launch across a wooden table and snap the neck of the pale man wearing a lab coat who was sitting opposite. The man fell without a whimper, his face one of stunned fear. Rob breathed heavily for a moment, then felt his jaw and grimaced, spitting blood to the side.

Shaking and nauseated, Beatrice levered herself up on her hands and knees. She was in a holding cell of some kind. What in the world had they dosed her with? Chloroform didn't act that fast… Moving was the wrong idea. She lurched up, crawling forward two steps before vomiting all over the floor.

Rob looked up at the noise, something in his face flickering and sad. "Bea," he said, hurrying toward her. Her eyes burned and teared with the after effect of whatever Brian had used to knock her out. "Hang on," Rob said. "I think I saw a key earlier… here." He grabbed a set of keys dangling from the dead man's waist and came to the door, trying a few until it unlocked.

"You're covered in blood!" He said, eyes wide. "Are you…?"

Beatrice patted herself down, gagging when her hands came away sticky with blood. But she soon realized that it was old blood, almost congealed and definitely not hers. She glanced back at the mattress she'd been laying on and the sticky iron smell made her shudder. "Not mine," she said.

She stumbled into Rob's arms, hugging him with relief. "I'm so glad you're safe. Are you okay? He hurt you!"

Rob stiffened at her touch, then patted her back awkwardly. "Eh. Just a molar and a few half-hearted digs with his knife. I'll be fine."

"Rob!" She looked over him, then saw on his arms a series of thin cuts oozing blood.

"I barely feel 'em," he said, seeing the horrified expression on her face. "Ghouls have thick skin and this bozo clearly never sliced a ghoul in his life. Radiation makes it shed periodically, so our bodies try to make up for it by being thicker or something. At least, I think I heard some schmuck say that once. It's fine. Look, they're already starting to stop bleeding."

She shook her head, wiping away tears. "I'm so sorry." She wanted to hug him again but was afraid of hurting him, and then was suddenly aware of the vile taste in her mouth. She backed away, covering her mouth. "Ugh. Sorry. I probably stink."

"I think I saw a first aid kit. Maybe it has a ration of water…" He walked to the other side of the small room—past the table and chair he'd been sitting at—and brought over a blood-spattered white box. There was indeed a can of water inside, which she used to rinse her mouth out, spitting it back into the cell and using a little to rinse off her bloody hands. She passed the can to Rob, who also used it to rinse out his mouth, grimacing with pain as he did so.

"That was a great story you spun," she said, glancing at the feet of the body, which was all she could see at the moment with the table in the room obscuring most of the floor.

Rob stilled and wouldn't look her in the eye. "Wasn't a story."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Beatrice looked up at him. "You… you were a Triggerman?"

He glanced away, his craggy face filled with shame. "For a little while, yeah. I… I ain't proud of it. It was a rough time after the Diamond City thing. I had a good job; a girl. A hard life but safe and _mine_ , and McDonough just… threw a grenade in it. There was no warning, Bea. No gradual eviction, no time to get things in order—though I don't think that would have been better. Went to bed depressed about the election; woke up with Diamond City Security pointing guns at my head and telling me to leave." He swallowed. "I went to a bad place; listened to some bad advice. Skinny Malone was taking in some of the displaced ghouls willing to join, and I was angry enough and stupid enough to go along with it."

"Rob," Beatrice whispered.

"Nick came when it became clear I wasn't going to snap out of it and talked some sense into my sorry hide, got me to see what I'd done, how Skinny was using me, and reminded me what'd I'd left behind."

Beatrice reached over and squeezed his hand. He looked up, surprised. "Who was your girl? Did she go with you?"

He dropped his gaze. "Ellie, Nick's secretary. She ended things when I went off the deep end. Thank goodness. Last thing I needed was to hurt her." He looked sad.

"She still cares about you," Beatrice offered gently. "Told me to keep an eye on you; looked upset when we talked about kissing. I didn't pay much attention at first, but now..."

Rob shrugged, but she could see he was touched. "Been trying to make it right with her, but it's slow going, you know? Scared to mess it up again. Don't know if she'll even take me back… I don't even deserve a second chance…"

She hesitated. "Was the bit about the Glowing Sea true too?"

He nodded.

"Oh, Rob." She felt tears trace down her cheeks again.

"It ain't going to happen now," he said, gently. "Far as I can tell, you start to realize when the feralness is taking hold. I just wanted to scare him." He took a deep breath. "Sorry you had to hear all that. I didn't even think about you being in the room… I was stalling, stretching those handcuffs out enough to try to break them." He looked on the keychain and found the key to get the broken cuffs off his wrists, which Beatrice then noticed were raw and bleeding.

"There was a stimpak in that kit." She opened the box again, pushing past rolls of ancient gauze.

"Bea, you don't have to…"

"Here." Her hands were shaking so badly, she didn't trust herself to inject the stim.

"Bea, I'm fine. We should save it for Amelia in case she's in a bad way."

"What?" Then her brain caught up with her. "We're in the Compound, aren't we?"

"Yeah. Did some detective work on your own, eh? Is that how you got caught?"

"Yeah. What happened, Rob? You didn't meet Dan when you were supposed to."

"The mayor had information on his computer about this Compound. I thought I would scout it out before I met up with him."

"You got caught."

"What gave it away?" He started to chuckle, but stopped with a pained grunt, hand on his cheek, which was starting to swell. "I saw Amelia, briefly, when they first dragged me in. They got a whole cell block."

"What is this place? What are they doing here?"

Rob's mouth twisted in disgust. "They've been torturing suspected synths for months."

Bile crawled up the back of her throat. "What? Why?"

"They think they know how to identify them. Through the SAFE test. They're trying to perfect it—hence, the torture. For answers."

Beatrice closed her eyes. "That's what all this was about. They thought Amelia was a synth and they took her…" Her words trailed off remembering the note Deacon found... _Covenant is a safe place. Whatever bad happened to you in the past won't happen here._ She wanted to scream or throw up again. Replace "synth" with "Chinese" and before the war, Beatrice might have been where Amelia Stockton was. It didn't matter what time period: humans were vile to people they deemed lesser in some way. At best, it manifested itself in the many small hurts Beatrice endured every day of her life in pre-war America, but at worst the filthiest instincts to hurt, to kill, to destroy took over and became something like this nightmare chamber.

She'd hated the necessity of killing ever since she left the Vault—she still woke up drenched in sweat dreaming about the first raider she'd shot—but if she'd had a fat man and a mini nuke at hand, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop herself from launching it.

Then she remembered Penny's raw grief over her son and some of her rage ebbed. At least Penny had a reason for her fear and hatred of synths. It didn't mean it was right, no more than hating ghouls who might turn feral, but it made sense. Was everyone in Covenant the same? Harboring a bone-deep fear of synths because of some past trauma? Perhaps they were all like wounded animals, holding their bleeding injuries too close to let healing begin, willing to savage any threat that crossed their paths.

Beatrice glanced at the door. "How many people did you see on your way in? Do you think we can sneak out and come back for Amelia? I don't have my gun, and I'm sure they took yours."

"Two guards brought me in," he said, ticking of on his fingers. "Saw two more at the entrance, one or two on the way, and the head of their security talking with the head doctor here—a Dr. Chambers, I think I heard someone say."

"Eight against two," she said, her stomach clenching. Three, if she counted Amelia, and she wasn't sure they could. If Amelia had been tortured as well—and all evidence pointed to that—then she might not be in any condition to walk, let alone fight. They also probably didn't have much time left in this interrogation room as it was. Surely someone would arrive to check on Rob and whoever the body on the floor had once been.

"Speaking of guns… this guy had the brains to bring his gun with him, but not enough sense to actually use it." Rob tsked, squatting by the body and pulling a pipe pistol from under the lab coat. "Amateurs. It's insulting, is what it is." He checked it over with a practiced eye.

"What a piece of crap, but I guess it'll spit lead, if it doesn't explode on me first…"

Beatrice glanced at the knife left on the table by the interrogator and looked away, skin crawling. Her time in the wasteland had taught her to never turn down an available weapon when you had none, but that knife had just been used to cut Rob… and dozens, maybe hundreds of innocent people. She thought if she touched it, she would throw up.

The door to the interrogation room creaked open.

Rob immediately spun, pistol raised, and stepped in front of Beatrice. The man standing at the door was wearing a helmet and armor that almost looked like umpire pads. He paused, seeing Rob's gun, then Beatrice noticed his sunglasses catching the light of the electric bulb in the room.

"Deacon!" Beatrice rushed past Rob and met him in almost a full body tackle.

"Beatrice," he said, voice shaking. Then he gripped her shoulders and pushed her away. "I have a stim, just hold on—"

She cradled his face in her hands. He was pale and almost cold to the touch. "It's not my blood. I'm not hurt."

He blew out a breath and his trembling hands gripped hers. "I opened the door, and I saw the blood, and I thought you were… I thought, it's happened again—" He pressed his lips together, inhaling through his nose, and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Then he straightened, his usual grin in place. It was like watching one of his fabled face changes in person. She dropped her hands, her heart hurting. What had he been about to say? What pain was he hiding?

"Not fair with the party invitations, Rob," he said in his usual glib voice. "Was I not invited?"

Rob looked between the two of them, and Beatrice realized with a sinking stomach that she'd said "Deacon" instead of "Preston." She'd have to explain once they got out of here.

"Invitation was a little late in the mail," Rob said after a beat of silence. "But you're here now, so the party can start."

"How did you know where to find us?" Beatrice asked.

"Easy. Just followed the signs to 'super secret evil lair.'" He relented at the look Beatrice gave him. "It wasn't hard to find out what happened to you. Honest Dan and I were watching the store, waiting like we'd planned, and we saw Brian drag you out." He paused. "It was, uh, not a great moment." He cleared his throat. "Dan was a bit closer than me—saw you were still breathing, so he followed while I went back to the mayor's house to see what Rob had found on the computer. We met after with the same story: this secret Compound was right across the river."

"Amelia's here," Beatrice said. "Rob, tell him what you told me?"

As Rob explained the true purpose of the Compound, Deacon's fists clenched. "These… bastards," he said in a hoarse voice. "We don't even need the Institute—the Commonwealth keeps on spitting out its own version of terrible every time I turn around. And they've been doing this for months? These assholes need to be stopped." He shared a meaningful glance with Beatrice. Dez was not going to be pleased about this—everything the Railroad fought against, going on right under their noses.

"You said you came here with Honest Dan." Beatrice glanced at the door. "Where is he?"

"Cleaning up the guards." He grimaced. "I tried to talk them into letting us see you, but then they shot at us, so I'm guessing that was a 'no.' These walls are thick though. After we took down the ones at the entrance, no one else came to investigate, so I went down one tunnel and Dan went down another."

"We should meet up with him," Rob said. "Amelia needs help."

"Oh yeah, here's this." Deacon reached behind under his armor and pulled out Deliverer from his waistband, handing it to Beatrice. She felt better with the gun in her hands but sick at the prospect of battle to come. She could kill to protect her friends, but she never enjoyed it.  
She hoped she never would.

Deacon went first out the door— his disguise might buy him a split second more time—but the coast was clear and he waved them out. Beatrice wrinkled her nose at the sadly familiar stink of sewer and centuries-old damp brick. It smelled like the back exit out of Railroad HQ. That thought made her determination return. They were here to rescue Amelia and whether she was a synth or not, this was something Beatrice knew how to do.

They passed a couple of other doors but saw only the bodies of those guards Dan had already dispatched. Finally, past a rusting metal bridge and down another corridor they heard voices.

"... I will make you a deal," said a woman's voice, rusty with age. "I pay you handsomely, and you let me dispose of our last remaining synth test subject, the one calling itself Amelia Stockton. Then I can continue my work."

"No deal," said Honest Dan's gruff voice. "I've had my fill of crazy and you've put me over the edge—there you are." His expression showed relief as they walked into the chamber. Beatrice had to bite back a gasp of horror. This large chamber was better lit than the others, though they too had all had electric light—the source of all the energy consumption problems Covenant had been rumored to have. But her attention was principally on the three barred cells built into the wall. Behind one she could clearly see a thin young woman with visible bruises and dark lacerations on her skin, even at this distance.

A woman in her sixties wearing a drab lab coat and medical goggles stood on the lading above them, arms folded. Dr. Chambers? Honest Dan was holding his rifle, but he looked pale, and Beatrice noticed blood running down his shoulder.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, her voice suspicious and irritated. "Wait a minute; you're that ghoul and… the girl Brian brought in. Listen, Brian said that you," she looked pointedly at Beatrice, "were a misunderstanding or something. There's no reason you have to be involved in this. Let me pay you—"

"Let Amelia go, and we will gladly leave," Beatrice interrupted. "Anything else you have to offer? Not interested."

"You're not interested in the progress we've made in identifying synths? Of finally getting a step closer to ending their reign of terror?"

"I'm not interested in allowing the torture of innocent people," Beatrice snapped. "We outnumber you. Let. Her. Go."

Dr. Chambers's lips pulled back in a snarl of insane rage. "I'll not lose my magnum opus to a bunch of wasters playing hero!" She whipped out a pistol, but then staggered back as a laser blast punctured her torso. Honest Dan lowered his rifle with a disgusted expression.

Beatrice looked away from the dying woman, who appeared to be choking on her own blood, and hurried to the cell with Amelia huddled inside. The cell was a nightmare: an overflowing bucket in a corner filled the whole cell with the smell of waste. Amelia was sitting next to the wall, arms hugging her knees. Purple and green bruises covered every inch exposed skin Beatrice could see and the barely healed cuts along her arms and face were red with infection. One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut.

"Amelia? Can you hear me?"

The girl looked up, eyes glassy with fever and fear. "M-my n-name is Amelia Stockton. I'm not a synth."

"Oh… okay…"

"I'm not a synth!" she repeated, then softly. "I'm not a synth."

A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the damp floor. "It's okay, Amelia. We're going to get you out of here." _Somehow_ … Amelia didn't reply; her cell fell silent as if no one was there.

"Poor kid," Deacon said at her elbow, his voice somber. "Thank goodness we got here in time."

"I got something on the terminal," Rob said a level below them. "I think it controls the cell doors… hang on…. Got it!"

Amelia's door gave an audible clack, and Beatrice yanked it open. Amelia looked up, confusion in her eyes. "You're… you're real?" she asked. She stood and hesitantly touched Beatrice's arm, then jerked her hand back. "I thought you were a dream." Fear came back into her eyes. "You're not… one of them?"

Beatrice and Deacon took a step back to give her some space. "No, we're here because your father's been looking for you, Amelia. We're going to take you home."

A sob choked out of the filthy young woman. "Home?"

Beatrice swallowed hard and risked bringing her arms around the girl's thin, shivering shoulders. "Yes. Home."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

The journey out of the Compound was silent, aside from Amelia's whispered "I'm not a synth" every so often. Beatrice longed to give the girl better clothes than the stinking, bloodstained remains she was wearing, but the only other options would have been stripping the dead guards. At least they'd been able to give her one of the two stimpaks they had. The worst of the cuts had already healed over, though Beatrice knew if there was underlying infection, Amelia would need more than just a stim. Honest Dan had needed the second stim. He'd gotten shot in the arm and leg while clearing out the guards.

"We should stop at Taffington once we get out of here," Deacon said as they neared the exit. "We'll be able to regroup and rest before heading to Bunker Hill. There's also a medic there."

Honest Dan slanted a glance at Amelia and nodded curtly. "I assume this is a place you trust."

"Absolutely," Beatrice said. "It's close by too." She paused, wanting to say the next delicately, not sure of how much Amelia was following the conversation.

"We may not all be in a condition to walk as far as Bunker Hill tonight."

Honest Dan nodded again. "Good call. I left a boat outside. I think we'll all fit."

They reached a large pipe big enough for two of them to walk abreast, cut open with a good foot of water lapping at their calves.

Beatrice made a face. "This pipe opens up right into the river?"

"Yeah. Makes it harder to find. I'm guessing when it rains a lot, they're probably trapped here for a day or two until it subsides … unless there's a back exit we didn't see."

Honest Dan went first, opening the door. Beatrice flinched, expecting a fresh gout of water, but the pipe sloped gently downwards, preventing water from rushing in. They filed out into the murky darkness, waiting at the edge of the pipe, the cold river up to their waists while Honest Dan splashed around in front of them. Beatrice shivered, reflecting that perhaps they were fortunate Decembers in the Wasteland seemed to be much warmer than the Decembers of her childhood. Otherwise, right now they might be on the verge of hypothermia rather than just mildly uncomfortable.

"Here." Dan grunted as he pulled the boat toward them.

"It looks low for being empty," Beatrice said, concerned as the small rowboat came into view. Sure enough, as Honest Dan pulled it in, they saw water lapping at the bottom. The men attempted to tip it up on its side, but the footing beneath them was slippery and Rob was worried if they accidentally capsized the boat, they'd never get it right side up again. Instead, Deacon used his borrowed guard helmet to scoop out as much water as possible.

"It'll have to do," he said after several minutes, when the helmet scraped the the bottom. "We can bail as we go, if needed."

They all climbed in, Dan cursing as he and Rob used the oars to push away from the pipe entrance to the Compound. "It's taking on water too fast with all of us in here."

Deacon renewed bailing with his helmet, but Beatrice could tell he wasn't going to be fast enough for them to get far.

"We can make it to the other side," Rob said, paddling furiously. "We'll have to walk from there."

Beatrice helped as much as she could, though since she only had her cupped hands, she wasn't sure how much good she was doing. The water in the boat was ankle deep by the time they bumped against the opposite shore.

They climbed out into the shallows, Dan and Rob pulling the boat up so it wouldn't float away.

"Don't know why we're bothering," Dan grumbled. "Piece of junk. Shoulda checked it better."

"Guys, we're about to have company," Deacon said suddenly, and Beatrice realized how close they were to the stark, concrete walls of Covenant. Dark figures were moving toward them at a run.

"Damnit, my gun's soaked," Rob growled.

Beatrice reached for Deliverer, but Amelia grabbed onto her arm, her breath short and shallow, eyes wild. "I"m not a synth, I'm not a synth, I'm not a synth."  
Swanson, Jacob, Brian, and a few other settlers from the town surrounded them, pistols drawn and aimed. Swanson had a sword—very much at odds with his leather jacket and jeans.

"Mrs. Wake, Mr. Wake," Jacob said, "I'm very sorry you had to get involved in this. I had really enjoyed our dinner tonight. Unfortunately, it seems like you've been drawn into Mr. Dan's scheme and we cannot allow you to leave here alive."

"Jacob," Swanson said without taking his sword point from the group huddled by the river's edge. "Think this would be a good time for a morale boost? We should show the town what we do to people who threaten our family."

"Good suggestion, Swanson," Jacob said, sounding pleased by the idea. "Let's get them inside."

While the other weapons were trained on them, Brian frisked them, throwing Rob's pistol, Deacon's sniper rifle, and Dan's laser rifle on the ground. But when he found Deliverer on Beatrice, he whistled in appreciation.

"Nice piece." He tucked the little gun into his own empty holster before nudging them all forward toward the blue doors of Covenant.  
Amelia began to whimper, curling into herself as Beatrice put an arm around her. She felt sick; there wasn't anything she could do. No help was coming for them—they were alone, outnumbered, and outgunned.

Brian and Swanson herded them in a small group. Deacon ended up at Beatrice's left with Amelia tucked under her right arm. He'd lost the helmet and armor somewhere along the way, just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, like he had been the first time she officially met him under the Old North Church. She met his eyes through the sunglasses, suddenly breathless with fear. She wanted tell him how she felt before it was too late. To tell him what his friendship meant to her, tell him she loved him—

"Ready for one hell of a party? I sure am." He grinned at her, and for a second she was thrown off, but the smile only widened. And, for a brief moment, she wanted to laugh; wanted to kiss him for the absurd lightness in the middle of compounding despair and fear. Perhaps it was a kind of bravery, that smile in the face of death.

"Hurry up, synth lover!" snarled one of the men, shoving Deacon from behind. He staggered into Beatrice who tripped over Amelia's foot, and went sprawling, gouging her hand on a rock somewhere on the ground. Amelia fell with a cry.

They were able to get to their feet while Swanson opened the doors. Beatrice winced at her throbbing knees, hobbling as best she could. Amelia was crying, though she was trying to hide it, shoulders hunched and head ducked. Beatrice wanted to cry too, but the hostility on the faces of their captors warned her to show no weakness. Brian and Swanson nudged them toward the tree in the center of the town square while Jacob called the residents to gather.

Deacon stumbled over a root and went sprawling into Brian, who raised his gun and smashed it into his face. Blood gushed from Deacon's nose and he fell to the ground with a groan of pain.

Beatrice flew to his side, then was surprised as he pressed Deliverer into her hand. She glanced around, startled, but they were standing too close to each other and the tree trunk for anyone to have seen his actions.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered with a grin, made morbid by the blood leaking into his mouth. He grimaced and spat it aside, trying in vain to make the flow stop.

"Lean forward," she said, crouching beside him, putting her hand on the back of his neck, and tucking the gun into her empty holster on her thigh through a slit in her dress's pocket, hoping the motion was obscured by the tree and the darkness of the night. "It'll stop the blood from draining down your throat."

"Good advice," he said, his voice sounding stuffy already. "Last thing I need is to become a vampire."

She felt better with the gun nearby, but wasn't sure what good it would do; why Deacon had risked a broken nose getting it to her? She might be might be able to get one or two shots off if she were lucky, but she would certainly die if a firefight erupted. They all would. And this wasn't like killing chem-crazed raiders armed with machetes. These were civilians; people in dresses and nice shoes, and well-styled hair.

They were people like her.

She would do it, if it meant saving Deacon, Rob, or Amelia, but she didn't want to. If only she could reason with these people… could she reach someone so steeped in fear it had turned to virulent hate?

More townspeople had gathered while they were getting into place, their eyes glittering with malice. Beatrice spotted Penny near the front. Whatever sympathy she'd had from the woman earlier had vanished; her face was hard and pitiless when she met Beatrice's eyes.

Jacob began to speak to some of the gathered townsfolk, extolling the virtues of Covenant. Time was running out.

As Beatrice scanned the crowd, she also saw uncertainty and fear as they looked at Deacon with blood smeared over his face and shirt, still dripping onto the ground. Her blood-caked dress was getting a fair number of looks too—their shocked faces mirrored Deacon's when he'd first seen her in the interrogation room. Perhaps this town wasn't as unified as Jacob thought. Most of them were probably ordinary settlers, no different than any of the people in the Minutemen settlements—except Minutemen settlements weren't run by anti-synth fanatics.

Could she use that to delay their executions? She didn't have any choice but to try.

There was a woman nearby who had looked sickened at the blood, her body language indicating a desire to leave: arms crossed, body stiff, and her eyes constantly flicking back toward the residential houses behind them. Beatrice continued to dab at Deacon's face with her sleeve.

"This isn't what you signed up for, was it?" Damnit, her voice was shaking. But the woman looked at her, her face startled, but not immediately hostile.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Torture of innocent people; public executions." Beatrice shrugged. "Take your pick."

"They weren't... " The woman protested, her eyes flicking to Amelia. "They're protecting us from synths. They said…"

"This blood isn't mine," Beatrice said gesturing at her dress. "It was in the interrogation chamber they tossed me in. Do you know what you have to do to someone to get them to bleed this much? Do you want to know about the cuts on Amelia's skin before we gave her a stimpak? Or what they did to my friend Rob—" She pointed at him, knelt on the ground like the rest of them, glaring balefully at Swanson's sword, the tip dangerously close to Dan's neck. "Cut his arms with a knife; yanked a tooth out of his mouth—"

"Stop it!"

"We're not synths!" Beatrice pressed her. "Amelia's not either; she's got a home—a father who loves her and wants her back."

The woman shook her head, but Beatrice could feel she was close. This was just a witness in a stand ready to break.

"Jacob and Brian and Swanson… They're doing exactly what the Institute does."

The woman flinched. "What are you talking about?"

"Jacob and the others… they claim to despise synths so much, yet here you are, doing the same things they would do."

"That's not—it… it isn't the same," she stammered.

"It isn't?" Beatrice gestured at their group. "We all have families who love and care for us—what do you think is going to happen to them if we die today?"

"Shut up," said a man beside the woman she was speaking to, and other murmurs from the other gun-toting settlers echoed the sentiment. More had been listening to her than she had thought. "You don't know what it's like."

"I do, actually," she said, her voice shaking from adrenaline and emotion. "My baby was taken by the Institute. My Shaun, who laughed when watching his mobile, who loved nothing more than to fall asleep in my arms was taken by the them. And there was nothing I could do about it."

"Then you should be thanking us," snapped one of the settlers, her knuckles white where they inexpertly gripped a pistol. "We're the only ones trying to stop them."

"No," Beatrice said, suddenly filled with a terrible calm. "No, you're not."

"Are you talking about the Brotherhood of Steel?" sneered another. "Those tin cans don't care about people. They'll get caught up killing mutants and hoarding any scrap of technology. That's all they ever do."

"No," she said, staring them all in the eye. "I'm talking about me: I'm going to destroy the Institute."

They stared at her, perhaps as startled as she was by the conviction in her voice.

But there was muttering too, she could hear her words being passed around.

"... she's like us... "

"... her son…"

"Her? Destroy the Institute?"

"How?"

Jacob seemed to be growing aware of the murmurs, looking around at the gathered townspeople, frowning. "What are they saying? What's going on?"

"Who cares?" Swanson growled, his hand clenching around his sword hilt. "Let's kill them and get it over with. No one messes with us."

"I want to know!" blurted out the woman she'd been speaking to, her posture scared, but her face determined. "She says she's going to destroy the Institute. I want to know how."

"She's lying," Swanson scoffed.

"I'm not!" Beatrice shot back, heart thudding. This was… dangerous ground. It had been whispered of in HQ, but Covenant seemed to be under the impression she was just a do-gooder by accident and not a synth-rescuing Railroad agent. She would have to be careful.

"My… my husband and I started our business as a way to make caps. We… we are paying some people who say they know how to get into the Institute," she licked her lips, then took a deep breath. "I'm going after him. I know he's there; I know he's alive, and I'm going to find my way in." Her voice got louder, conviction lending strength to her words. "I'm going to invade their home. I'm going to find my son, take him back, and once he's away and safe, I'm going to destroy them, so they never steal anyone else again."

The night rang with silence. Beatrice exhaled in slow relief as some of the hostility faded in the settlers' gazes. "How?" asked one. "How are you getting in? No one knows where it is."

"The… friends I mentioned. They're working on that problem. We have a few good ideas already, and after I killed Kellogg—"

"You killed Kellogg?" Swanson looked disbelieving. "I'd heard he was gone, but I didn't know it was you."

"My son," sobbed a man. "My son was taken too. Can you find him? Can you look for him too?"

Suddenly the night was filled with other cries; "my daughter," "my uncle," "my mother," "my wife," "my brother."

Overwhelmed, Beatrice could only stammer. "If… if I was allowed to leave, I would. I promise. But I'd need a list of names."

Someone in the back pulled out a pencil; someone else pulled out a small, wrinkled notepad and it soon made its way to Beatrice's hands, filled with names. She held the notepad a moment, then looked up at the crowd, many with shining tear-tracks down their faces. "From one parent to another—that's the only promise I can give. If you let us go, I will do everything I can to find out what happened to your loved ones." She bit her lip. "I don't want to give false hope…"

"We know there isn't much hope," said someone near the back. She couldn't see his face. "We've already lived through the worst. But even if it's just a name crossed off on a list… at least we'd know, right?"

"Are you all idiots?" Swanson snarled into the silence. Beside him Jacob looked stunned, as if he couldn't see how the crowd had been wrested away from him. "The only thing that's happening tonight is their deaths!" He looked wildly around him, then down at Dan. Something dark flashed in his eyes and before Beatrice could yell out a warning, Swanson slashed his sword across Dan's neck.

Amelia screamed. Dan clamped his hands to his neck but blood gushed between his fingers and he swayed, slumping over, his blood seeping out in an ever-growing stain on the ground.

Chaos erupted. The settlers standing around them shrieked. Jacob yelled at Swanson, who screamed back. Brian strode up to the both of them, shouting and gesturing wildly. Beatrice tore her gaze from Dan's body. Suddenly, she knew what to do with Deliverer. Taking swift aim, she popped off four shots and the electric lights in the town shattered, casting them all into darkness.

"Come on," Deacon breathed in her ear, and she grabbed Amelia and Rob, who sat stunned, staring at Dan's body.

"Rob!" She shook his shoulder and he flinched, then seemed to realize what they were doing and rose to his feet.

At every step toward the door she expected to hear the report of a gun and feel the searing pain of a bullet. But nothing happened. They ran from the walls of Covenant toward the shelter of a tree some yards away where they stopped to assess their condition, make sure no one else was seriously wounded. Shouts and gunshots sounded from behind the walls of Covenant.

"Dan." Rob leaned a hand against the tree, swallowing hard. "Damnit all to hell."

Deacon's nose had stopped bleeding so much, but his face was rapidly swelling. Amelia was shaking, but she at least seemed cognizant of what was going on and nodded when Beatrice asked if she was okay.

"Our weapons," Deacon said when they'd taken stock.

"Leave 'em," Rob said. "Not worth it."

"Like hell." Deacon grunted, wincing as he prodded his nose. "I've had that rifle for years. It's a damn good gun, and I'm not about to leave it to rust by the river."

"I'll go with him," Beatrice said. "Rob, head to Taffington with Amelia. We'll be there soon."

Rob nodded reluctantly, and Beatrice watched him and Amelia disappear into the darkness before Deacon pulled her toward the river.

The guns were lying where they left them. Deacon slung his rifle over his back, then hesitated, and took Dan's as well. "Maybe Stockton knows a next of kin we can give this too."

She turned, stepping into the circle of his arms. He breathed out carefully into her hair, then hugged her close.

"See? Told you I'd turn you into a hugger," she said with a wobbly smile.

"That was close. Too close. I almost lost you…" He swallowed hard and pulled back a little to look her in the face. "Worst case scenario in a mission happens somehow you turn half the crowd on our side? Unbelievable." He smoothed a thumb down her cheek and her heart began to beat faster. "That's what you are, Beatrice. Always have been." Their lips met, a little frisson of heat that warmed Beatrice through. This kiss was more tentative, a testing of something more casual than their last kiss had been, but still tender and sweet.

Her heart swelled. She'd been an inch from death a moment ago; it wasn't the first time, and likely wouldn't be the last, but she knew she couldn't waste anymore time. Life was so short here: so very short. And things you knew, things you wanted to say were often left unsaid because of what? Fear? She didn't have to be afraid of Deacon, she knew that now. He would either accept it… or he wouldn't. And it would hurt. It would rip her heart out.

But it had happened to her before. Hearts regrew eventually.

"Deacon, I..." she said, then paused at the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"Liar," Penny Fitzgerald hissed, coming into the faint light of the moon. She was standing a few feet away, the moonlight gleaming on the long barrel pointed at them.


	17. Chapter 17

"Penny?" Beatrice swallowed. She heard no other noise aside from the rustling of the river behind them, no Rob or Amelia or any other Covenant settlers. "Penny, what's going on?"

"I heard what he said," she snarled. "Something about a 'mission' and he called you 'Beatrice'—not Nancy. And you! Not Mr. Wake or whatever. Deacon? You're… you're some kind of Institute spy, aren't you? You just lied to everyone; you made them start fighting, and I'm going to make sure you don't get away with it."

Beatrice and Deacon slowly separated, but he stayed at her side, his hip gently bumping into Deliverer on her thigh. Would the darkness obscure her motions if she went for it?

"I'm not lying," she said, moving her hand to the gun's grip inside the dress's hidden pocket. "And we're not with the Institute. How could we be? Otherwise, Swanson would have sent us to the Compound like Amelia."

The gun wavered, then steadied. "So, you're not a synth. You still lied! You still made everyone think—" She sucked in a breath, her eyes wild. "You made me tell you about my Sammy after that ridiculous story about your baby—"

"That wasn't a lie," Beatrice snapped, fury rising to drown out her fear. "How _dare_ you try to tell me my son's kidnapping was a lie! I have spent every minute since I knew he was gone trying to get to him."

"If that's true you wouldn't be trying to rescue a synth!" Penny shrieked. "You'd want them all dead so they couldn't hurt anyone else!"

"Even if Amelia is a synth," Beatrice tried very hard to sound calm, though her heart was thudding like she was running a race, "she didn't personally murder anyone; she's innocent."

"She's a synth," Penny growled. "I don't care if she personally hasn't killed anyone. It's only a matter of time before she does, and you just let her walk out of the Compound; you… you destroyed all the work Dr. Chambers was doing..." She raised the shotgun. "Well I'm not stupid, and you're not going anywhere." Then she paused, and the barrel suddenly swung in Deacon's direction. "How about I show you how it feels to see your loved one killed right in front of _you_?"

Time seemed to slow down. Beatrice raised her arm holding Deliverer, squeezing the trigger three times in rapid succession. Penny saw her movement, but too late, swinging the gun in an attempt to point it at her.

The bullets hit Penny in the chest, sending her staggering back, her shot going wide. The shotgun dropped with a thud as blood blossomed on the front of her pretty green dress like horrible flowers.

"Penny!" Beatrice ran toward her, where she lay twitching on the ground, her hands covered in blood. She patted her own pockets fervently for the last stim they had. "Deacon, where's the stimpak?"

"We gave it to Honest Dan," he said, crouching by her side. "He got shot, remember?"

"G-g-go a-way," Penny whimpered.

"Oh, Penny," Beatrice whispered, tears falling fresh from her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Deacon looked up suddenly back at the dark walls of Covenant, at a sound that hadn't registered to Beatrice. "We have to go," he said in a low voice. He gently grabbed her shoulders. "Come on. There's nothing you can do for her."

"I'll look for your Sammy too," she said as Deacon drew her away. "I promise."

Penny didn't respond, and Beatrice bit back a sob.

They ran through the tree-studded landscape for what felt like hours, Beatrice having trouble drawing breath with each step they took. Finally, the warm lights of oil lamps penetrated the trees, and they walked out into the cleared ground at Taffington Boathouse.

Soft lantern light illuminated Rob pacing on the big front porch of the house when they walked up. The settlement's medic was there too. She hurried down the steps as they came into view, her kit in hand.

Rob blew out a breath. "Finally," he said, sounding relieved. "I was just about to go back." He looked closer at Bea, frowning. "You okay?"  
She shook her head, shivering.

Deacon touched his swollen face with a wince. "It's been a… rough day. Night. Hell, what time is it? Nevermind."

"Not… not mine," Beatrice said as the medic exclaimed over the blood on her dress. "I'm fine. His nose is broken though." She gestured at Deacon.

"You sure you're not hurt?"

"Only scrapes and bruises."

The medic turned to Deacon, examining his face with concern.

"This is going to hurt," said the medic, "but I have to set your nose before I inject the stim." She frowned. "It would be better if you took the sunglasses off."

He hesitated. "Yeah… okay." He removed them and closed his eyes. The medic gripped his nose with her fingers.

"Okay doc, do your worst... AUGH! Son of a—" He wheezed, voice trailing off.

With practiced ease, the medic injected the stimpack. Almost immediately the swelling started to subside, and Deacon put his sunglasses back on.

"How's Amelia?"

"Sleeping," the medic said, closing her kit and tucking it under her arm. "That's the most important thing for tonight as I suspect she hasn't slept well in days. A minor infection, but the antibiotics I gave her should clear that up. Nothing else seriously wrong with her." She paused. "Physically speaking, that is."

"Good to hear. Thanks, doc."

The medic nodded and turned back to the house.

Deacon looked back at Rob, who'd stood watching them in silence. "You set up for the night?"

"Yeah. Nice folks here. Seems like they have a bunch of spare beds. You wouldn't know anything about that would you… Deacon?"  
Beatrice stirred. "Not tonight, Rob," she said, her voice scratchy. She was still shaking uncontrollably. "Deacon," she said, then stopped. She didn't know what she wanted to say.

"Come on," he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulder. She hooked her arm around his waist and, propping each other up, they made their way to the guest quarters on the opposite side of the ruined road. The guest quarters was a squat, square building just behind the tree line containing four rooms: three bedrooms and one common room, which also served as a sort of supply station for anything synth refugees might need. Beatrice and Deacon picked out dry clothes from the chest sitting in the corner, leaving their muddy shoes outside. She was so tired, she didn't care about size or fashion, simply grabbing a formless gray sack of a dress that was a few sizes too big. She changed inside one of the small rooms—even smaller than the guest room in Covenant, but it was clean and smelled more like home: fresh air wafting through the wired-over windows, the scent of ripening mutfruit drifting in, and woodsmoke from a dampened fire somewhere. When she'd finished changing, she opened the door and crawled into bed, waiting.

After several long heartbeats, she felt Deacon slide in next to her with a sigh. She turned and buried her face in his shirt, shuddering, but dry of tears for once. Perhaps she'd used them all up.

He kissed her forehead. "I know you didn't want to do that," he said softly.

"I hate it," she whispered. "I hate it so much." She swallowed hard. "She's going to be in my nightmares."

"Well, if you have them, I'll be here to chase them away." He shifted slightly to pull the blanket up over both of them, and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

#

Beatrice stirred the next morning when she felt Deacon leave the bed. She made a small noise in protest, hand flopping weakly on the empty space beside her.

"Am I being summoned?" She heard him chuckle, then the bed sank again, his arm coming around her shoulders as she snuggled into his side.

"No one gave you permission to leave," she said, yawning, and rubbed her face into his t-shirt. He smelled clean and his t-shirt was a little damp.

"Did you take a bath?" She lifted her head, envious.

He grinned at her without his sunglasses, and her heart gave a little flutter. She'd never get tired of seeing his eyes. "I was up about an hour ago; couldn't sleep anymore with your snoring—Ow!" He laughed, rubbing his ribs where she'd poked him.

"How's Amelia?" she asked, sitting up. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, which felt gritty, and she caught a whiff of stale sweat and musty brick from herself. Ugh. She needed a bath too.

"Still asleep. She probably hasn't slept well in awhile, so we'll let her go for a bit longer. I sent a runner to give Stockton a heads up about Amelia and what happened to Dan."

There was a few quiet minutes before Deacon spoke again, his voice gentle. "How are you doing?"

Beatrice flinched, the night before rushing back with unsettling clarity. She breathed out slowly. "I'll deal. I have to."

"Not by yourself this time, okay?" He pushed some hair behind her ear. "Don't let it crush you."

She nodded, then reached across him for the little notepad filled with names. The one the settlers in Covenant had given to her. He watched her as she read the names, finger trailing down the page, then turning to the next. She did this three times, mouthing the names silently, each a monument to someone's tragedy.

With a sigh, she put it back on the crate, and considered the dirt under her fingernails.

"Bathhouse open?"

"Was when I left it. Everyone else in the settlement is eating lunch."

Beatrice froze. "How long did we sleep? Never mind." She crawled across his legs and dropped to the floor, looking for her pack before she realized she didn't have anything she'd taken to Covenant except Deliverer and the rancid, blood-crusted dress she'd tossed into a corner last night. Everything else she'd left at Piper's before going on the mission, including her Pip-Boy, which she was starting to miss.

She yawned again and stretched, reaching her fingers to the ceiling and twisting her back with a satisfying pop. Turning, she opened her mouth to ask Deacon about when they were going to leave, but caught his eyes in a definite downward glance, before he saw her noticing and blushed.

She was wearing the most unappealing dress in the world, she stank like old sweat, and still, Deacon _blushed_.

Beatrice went back to sit on the edge of the bed and kissed him, softly. "I'm glad you found me."

"What do you mean? You're the one that found us."

She smirked. "I was terrified to go out of Sanctuary for days after I left the Vault. I pushed myself by exploring around… did you really think I wouldn't find the little Railroad lookout post conveniently poised to watch the Vault door?"

Now he was definitely blushing.

"I can explain."

"Oh?" She settled in on the bed, crossing her legs under the voluminous skirt of her dress and propping her chin up on her hands. "This should be good."

"So, you know Kellogg was high on the Railroad's shit list right? He was worse than a Courser at times. Lots of Railroad missions went south thanks to him. We used to have a map of sightings: C's marked for confirmed sightings, which were rare because the man rarely left witnesses. S's were marked for suspected sightings or jobs. One of those was on a road heading north of Concord. I don't even know when it was added, but not too long before you woke up, we lost three synths and two runners to Kellogg. Dez wanted us to refocus our efforts on the S rumors again, so because there's always a chance, you know? Maybe we'd get lucky and take him out… or at least get some new intel that would give us an edge. The S going north of Concord was one no one remembered investigating. Or if we'd had a record of it somewhere, it was lost with Switchboard. I wasn't actually the one who found the vault and set up the watch site… but I did spend a little bit of time there."

"Ha! I knew it!"

"It was sealed. We didn't know if Kellogg had gone past it, but it seemed unlikely because there's really nothing of else of note in the area. And the Institute has been known to go for any sort of pre-war tech—what better place to find that than a vault? So we set up a watch with some tourists who could spare a few hours out of the day. We had a tourist watching it the day it opened. He saw you leave and go to Sanctuary, and then went running to let us know the egg had cracked." Deacon reached up to stroke a thumb across her jawline, his expression unexpectedly tender. "Dez wasn't interested anymore. No more links to Kellogg, so it was a dead end. But you… I thought… I don't know. Something struck me about the story. I went to see for myself. Saw you in your blue suit trying to build a fire without Codsworth's help."

Beatrice blushed and tried to hide her face in her hands, but he stopped her, clasping one hand with his own. "You saw that?"  
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Yeah. You know, I think if any other agent was there, they would have just scratched you off as another clueless vault-dweller, and thought no more about it. But you… you sat there, crying over a stupid pile of sticks, Codsworth hovering like a Miss Nanny over a crib, but you didn't give up. I remember thinking, 'God, the sheer bullheadedness. Just let the robot do its thing.'"

Beatrice laughed.

"But then I thought: how many agents have we lost because it was too hard? How many tourists never reply to our calls for aid because it's easier to close your eyes and ignore it? But you, you hunched over your pile of sticks until there was smoke. A little bit, not enough to even catch a dry leaf on fire, but there was still smoke.

"There was something about you, then, and there's something about you now. So… yeah. I did my best to keep an eye on you when I could. I mean, stubborn or not, this is a tough world, and it would either refine that something or snuff it out. Then you blaze into the Old North Church with only Dogmeat at your side, like an avenging goddess. It took my breath away. You still do. And I'm the undeserving bastard you choose?" He shook his head. "I still can't quite wrap my head around it."

Beatrice pressed a kiss into his palm. "You are so unkind to yourself sometimes. Why?"

Deacon searched her face and she could see that pain again in his eyes. "Before I tell you, can I ask… why me?"

"Why do I love you?"

He twitched, eyes going wide. "You… you love me?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Beatrice blushed. "Yes. I'd hoped to tell you when I smelled less like a sewer, but yes: I love you."

Deacon was struggling again, she could see it in his face. Something deeply painful rising to the surface then forcibly pushed back. She waited a moment, but he didn't say anything else, so she continued.

"I liked you from the beginning. I thought you were funny and way smarter than you let everyone know. I could talk to you about stuff; about books and you understood my references—mostly."

"I still think your stance on _Jane Eyre_ is waaay out of line."

Beatrice stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm not being goaded into another argument just so you can avoid being praised."

"Ouch. Yikes. Let me know when you're going to go straight for the jugular next time."

"You are very kind too," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "though you try to hide it. Sneaking extra rations for synths into their packs; learning their designations where a lot of the others struggle to remember the letters and numbers; talking to them about things, making them feel like people. You make them laugh, and it's amazing, because you can tell they've probably never laughed a day in their life. You," she bit her lip, hiding an embarrassed grin, "put up with my Silver Shroud quest."

"Well, you squealed so loudly when we found the costume that I was partially deaf for days, so really I was just being dragged around—"

"Oh hush." She laughed. "You care so deeply, Deacon, it surprises me that no one else sees it."

"I'm a liar," he said suddenly, harshly. "I _lied_ to you." He swallowed. "And… now I understand why you hate it so much."

Beatrice glanced down. "Yes… that was hard, but your lies were different from Nate's. Nate lied because… he was selfish and he didn't care about how I felt. He wanted the convenience of a socially approved wife while he did what he wanted. You lie..." She squeezed his hands. "Because I think you're terrified of something." She hesitated. "It didn't escape my notice the first big lie you told me—the one about being a synth—was because we'd gotten closer. I think it scared you."

Deacon was silent for a moment. "So this is what it's like being on the other side of that lawyer charisma thing you do." He tried for lightness, but it came off kind of flat.

She waited, her thumb stroking his fingers, letting him find the words.

"I was scared," he admitted. "You… It's been a long, long time since someone got… since I let anyone get close. It happened so easily with you, I was already way in before I realized what was happening. You're right; I picked a lie I'd used before without even really thinking about it. I told myself it was part of your weird apprenticeship in spycraft, but the searing hot truth is I was frightened of what I was starting to feel, frightened of what I could see you were starting to feel too."

Beatrice's eyebrows rose. "You knew?"

He shrugged. "I only suspected at first and that alone was enough to make me want to pop a Stealth Boy and run."

"I'm glad you didn't."

He tried to smile but it wavered. "Me too. But… there's the reason… the real truth: I'm a fraud to the core." He swallowed, and glanced down at their hands, then back up at her, searchingly. "My name isn't Deacon."

She caught her breath.

"Well, I guess I should say, it's not just Deacon. It's my last name. My gran—she raised me—called me Johnny. But to the UP Deathclaws, a gang I joined when I was a kid, I was 'J.D.'" He snorted, real disgust in his tone. "I thought I was such hot stuff, but I was really just scum."

"Deacon…" she started to protest.

"A bigot," he spat the word so harshly she flinched. "I was a bigot… and a violent one at that."

Beatrice took a slow breath and squeezed his hands. "Kids make mistakes and gangs tend to feed off each other…"

Deacon smirked, though his eyes were hollow. "You're asking if the gang just exaggerated some teensy prejudices I had. Perhaps it did, but that's no excuse. I know what I was and what I did. We terrorized anyone we thought was a synth. We egged each other on. Started with some property damage and graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably, a lynching. The Claw's leader was convinced we'd finally found and killed a synth. Looking back, I'm not so sure." He swallowed.

"You killed someone?" she whispered.

"I'm no better than those bastards running that Compound." He inhaled slowly. "You talked about nightmares… that one… I see that one every night. I'll… I'll never forget his eyes. But it got through to me, horrible as it was. I left the gang, tried to move on. A few years passed. I grew up; became a farmer. Can you believe that?" His smile barely got off the ground before it faltered and he continued. "Then I met someone. Barbara. She… she saw something in me that I didn't know I had."

"She sounds special," Beatrice said, gently. The pain in his voice was almost tangible. She wanted to fold him in her arms, but something held her back yet. There was more to come.

"She was," he said, his voice heavy. "We got married; eked out a living… started trying for kids. Turns out, she couldn't have any, because she was a synth."

Beatrice's hands flew to her mouth. "Don't say the gang knew?"

He nodded, misery etching lines on his face. "I don't know how they found out but they did… they came when I wasn't home." His voice cracked, and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It was over when I found her."

"Oh, Deacon…" She reached for his hands again, but he wrenched them away.

"I killed them," he rasped, shaking. "Most of them. I… I don't remember a lot of it. But the Railroad found out and asked me to join." He choked on a laugh. "Guess I made a good impression; killing my synth wife's murderers."

"They didn't know you'd been part of the gang?"

He shook his head. "So you see, everyone—Tom, Dez, you, even that asshole Carrington—they deserve to be in the Railroad. But me… I'm everything wrong with the whole fucking Commonwealth. I'm... the kind of person you hate the most: a bigot and a liar." He looked in her eyes then away, hunching his shoulders for a moment while Beatrice absorbed his words in silence. Then, before she could say anything, he straightened and put his sunglasses back on. "So," he said in a light voice. "I can see you need some time to process. Good talk. I'm going to go smoke."

"Deacon!"

But he was already out the door and up away into the trees. She ran after him, but he didn't go far, just enough to sit down on the edge of some flat rocks poking out of the dirt.

"Deacon," she said, kneeling in front of him, turning his face to hers. His cheeks were wet with tears, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. He'd screwed his eyes shut, but he didn't tell her to leave, so she took that as a win.

"Remember when you told me that if I knew the real you, I'd run out of the room?"

He nodded.

"I'm still here," she said, putting one of her hands in his, the other still cupping his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I guess I ran before you could," he said, swiping at his eyes with his free hand. He tried to laugh but it sounded more like a hiccup. "I thought," he said after a moment, voice still shaky, "I'd processed that stuff a long time ago. Hello repressed feelings: my old, asshole friends."

"Deacon…" She paused. "Do you want me to still call you that?"

He considered a moment, then nodded. "Johnny was a stupid kid, and J.D. was a little shit. Deacon, at least, is a name I can wear proudly. Deacon has helped people; has bled for his friends and a good cause."

"Not John?"

He made a face. "I've used that name before, but…" He shrugged. "It'd feel weird now, like a coat that doesn't fit quite right anymore."

She nodded. "Deacon… you're not what's wrong with the Commonwealth. If anything, I wish more people were like you."

He stared at her, then took off the sunglasses to wipe his eyes again.

"What do you mean? The murdering bigoted part? Or the murdering lying part?"

"I mean," she said, stroking her thumb across his hand, "that you learned from your mistakes. Do you know how rare a quality that is? So many people dig in their heels, refuse to admit that they could do something wrong." She grimaced. "I did that with Nate." She shook her head, as if shaking off an annoying fly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make this about me. What I mean is, you grew. You intentionally made choices to change who you were for the better. That's admirable."

He fiddled with the sunglasses. "If I'd been born pre-war, and synths were Chinese…"

She stilled. He'd picked up on that too?

"I probably would have been the kid who sold out your family for the internment camps." His voice was flat with self-loathing.

"Deacon," she said, her voice firm. "Do you hate me now? Do you hate synths now?"

He looked startled. "No! Hell, of course not!"

"Then that's all that matters." She heard her own voice trembling, her own emotions surging as she tried to make him understand. "Who you were, who I was… it's all in the past. We all have things we regret. But you're trying to make up for it. And I'm on your side. Always."

She could almost see the moment where he finally believed her, like a veil lifting behind his eyes.

He leaned forward, capturing her mouth with his, tangling one of his hands in her hair, sliding down to the ground where she was kneeling. There was something terribly tender and desperate in the way he kissed her, as if trying to absorb the reassurance she'd given him.

"I don't deserve you being okay with this," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

A scream pierced the air. They scrambled up, reaching for weapons that were still in their room. Running to grab Deliverer, Beatrice had time to wonder what her life was that making out one moment and looking for weapons of death the next was no longer unusual. They crept closer to the settlement from the trees, cautious, expecting to see raiders or maybe a herd of angry radstag.

But there was no one outside, except for a few of the settlers going about their daily tasks. They too had stopped to look around for the source of the scream, then Beatrice realized who it was.

"Amelia," she said and Deacon looked stricken.

"You stay here," she said, squeezing his hand. "I'll go see what's going on."

He nodded, looking relieved. She knew he probably needed a moment to compose himself anyway.

Amelia had stopped screaming by the time Beatrice got to the main house, but she was huddled in a corner of the room, eyes glassy and staring wildly at nothing, her face contorted as she breathed in quick little gasps of air. Beatrice recognized the signs of a panic attack immediately. The bed in the room was tussled, the blankets mostly on the floor. Amelia had probably awoken from a nightmare.

"Amelia," Beatrice said in a calm voice. "It's me, Beatrice. We met last night, remember? You're in Taffington Boathouse, a settlement on the river. Can you tell me what you see in this room?"

Amelia swallowed, her face shiny with sweat. "I… I see… I see the floor."

"Good." Beatrice nodded, still calm. "What color is it?"

"G-gray?"

"How does it feel against your fingers?"

Trembling hands reached out. "Smooth… like… like a lot of people have walked here."

"Very good. What else do you see?"

"There's… there's a sink over there and… and a bed. I slept in that bed."

Beatrice talked Amelia through describing the whole room, which helped ground her a little. When Beatrice suggested going outside, Amelia nodded and accepted help rising to her feet and tottering out onto the back porch. A pleasant breeze flowed over them from the river, and Beatrice helped Amelia with some slow breathing exercises she'd learned at the Caring Wives of Veterans Committee a lifetime ago.

Finally, Amelia seemed to be feeling back to normal, though she still looked pale. "Thanks," she said, hugging her arms to her chest. "I don't know what that was…"

"It's called a panic attack," Beatrice said. "It's a perfectly normal response to something like you just went through."

A shudder ran through the young woman. "How long are we staying here?"

"We can leave for Bunker Hill as soon as you feel well enough to travel," Beatrice said, looking her over. Amelia was thin—had she been starved as well as tortured? But the lacerations on her skin were healed thanks to the stimpak, and the angry redness of infection was also dimmed. "Do you want to eat breakfast first? We can also get the bathhouse ready, if you want."

"A bath?" Amelia's eyes widened. "There's running water here?"

"Hot water too," Beatrice said, smiling. A perk of being close to the river was being able to easily pump water into a wide cistern which heated it and then sent it into an old, repaired ceramic tub they'd salvaged from the house. The bathhouse had once been the actual "boathouse," with several wooden rowboats stored up in its peaked ceiling. With a lot of hard work, they'd scrapped the boats and reused what they could to make a proper floor. It was too small and too close to the river to be much use as living quarters, so they'd turned it into a common use bathhouse and storage instead. It had the tub, a radio on a shelf high enough where it couldn't be splashed and a shelf full of towels. And used bathwater was easily drained back into the river with a small hole drilled into the floor and fitted with a pipe.

Amelia readily agreed, so Beatrice got her some clean clothes from the guest house and, at the girl's request, sat outside the closed door to the bathhouse as the radio played Nat King Cole inside. She looked around while sitting there, though was unable to see much because of the proximity of the main house. Still, she sort of hoped Deacon would wander by again. Probably shouldn't make out while Amelia was taking a bath, but maybe they could continue their conversation. Then again, that confession had been building for awhile, and he was so intensely private. Perhaps he needed some alone time to recover.

As she was sitting there, looking out over the river, Rob walked up . He looked better than he had the night before. The swelling in his jaw had gone down, and the cuts on his arms and wrists now healed over with fresh scar tissue.

"Hey," he said, when she looked up with a smile. "Can we talk?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"Sure… though, I'm keeping watch for Amelia." Beatrice pointed at the bathhouse behind her with her thumb. "Do you mind chatting here?"

"Not at all." Rob considered her, and she blushed, a little, thinking about how she must look: the formless gray dress and sleep-disheveled hair. "Have you eaten yet?"

She shook her head. "Just woke up."

"I can tell," he said with a grin. "Stay put, I'll be right back."

Returning a few minutes later, Rob carried a couple of steaming bowls back to where she was sitting.

"Breakfast," he said, triumphantly. "Or lunch. Whatever. Whoever makes the grub around here put some out for us."

"Ooh, that smells good!" Beatrice accepted the bowl from him, which proved to be razorgrain mush swirled with brahmin cream, topped with slices of sweet mutfruit, and a drizzle of tart tarberry sauce. Rob got the same along with a plate of crispy mole rat bacon to share.

"How's your tooth?"

He shrugged, stirring his cream and tarberry sauce vigorously. "Doc gave me a stim last night, so the socket's healed over. Gonna ache for a bit while the nerve dies, but that can't be helped."

"I'm sorry I cut you off last night," she said after an awkward pause. "I owe you an explanation about Deacon and why we lied about his name. I'll tell you what I can, but some of the information isn't mine to share freely." She explained as quickly as possible a brief overview of her work with the Railroad, only saying Deacon basically sponsored her entry without giving anything else away. She knew Rob was trustworthy, but she also didn't want to share Railroad details he didn't need to know.

"I really am the General of the Minutemen, though," she said with a smile. "And Preston Garvey is a real person, but he's the last of the old Minutemen; a survivor of the Quincy massacre and as different from Deacon as you can be."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," he said with a smile. "When, ah, _Deacon_ showed up in Diamond City, he and Nick seemed to know each other real well, but when he left to get you, the old man got all cagey. Wouldn't answer any questions. I see now he wanted to go along with whatever play you decided to run. Must make ops like this hard when Deacon decides to use a different name."

"We usually work alone," she admitted. "Or with other agents who already know who he is. But I'm really glad I got to see you again. I would never have dreamed anyone I knew became a ghoul. I think a part of me hoped I would find someone from the old days, but…" She trailed off, poking at her mush. "I… I think I live in the past too much. It's something I've realized over the past twelve hours. I have to learn to accept this world for what it is—not what I want it to be."

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," he said gently. "You'll get there. Hell, sometimes I still miss the old days, and I've been around for two centuries of this nonsense." He waved his spoon in the air and she laughed. It felt good to laugh again after the night before.

After seeing Penny's bright eyes fade into darkness.

She bit her lip, blew out a breath, trying to re-center herself in the moment. "I should also explain, um… when we kissed, before the bombs. I told you I'd just gotten married…"

Rob's expression changed to one of hesitant concern. "Hey, look, you don't have to tell me anything. I only hope… I hope you were safe. That your husband didn't hurt you too bad. I'm glad you got away from him, one way or another."

She blanked for a moment, and then realized he probably thought Nate had been abusive, that perhaps she'd been trapped by fear and had kissed Rob as some sort of escape.

Well, it had been that, but not for the reasons he was thinking.

"No, it wasn't like that. Nate—my husband—wasn't the type to do that. He never hit me." Her lips twisted in a rueful grin. "He never touched me at all."

Rob cocked a hairless eyebrow. "Come again?"

She explained about Chinese cultural tradition of arranged marriages and what Nate confessed after their wedding, without going into as much detail as she'd told Deacon. It was still an intimate story—one Rob deserved to hear—but perhaps not all the rawness that still ached a little, like a wound starting to heal over.

Rob burst out in laughter that made her nearly drop her bowl in surprise. "No wonder you kissed me. Jeez, the nerve of that guy." He shook his head, crumbling the last piece of bacon into his mush. "Thanks for telling me, Bea. I, uh, have to admit, when you showed up in Nick's office, it was like… I dunno. It felt like back then, ya know? A second chance. I mean," he shrugged, looking awkward, "I can see you and Deacon have a thing… but when we were just starting out on the mission, I couldn't really tell where things stood, and… well, I was feeling kinda down about my chances with Ellie. I mean, look at her. A beautiful girl like her in Diamond City? I get to see her once a month if I'm lucky. Then you showed up, and… I dunno. Old feelings, I guess."

"I… I think I felt it too, a little," she admitted, blushing. "For me, I think there was something going on with Covenant feeling like the old days, and seeing you… and I had been thinking about Nate again." She shrugged. "I think it was just natural. But… I love Deacon, Rob. And I know you still care about Ellie."

Rob's eyes widened. "Oh, no. Bea, no. I'm not—I don't want to come between you and Deacon or anything. Though," his smile turned a little mischievous, "lemme know if he ever breaks your heart. 'Cause I'll go have a little chat with him."

Beatrice laughed again, and just like that the odd tension she'd felt with Rob since seeing him in Nick's office vanished. She would always be fond of the memory of kissing him in the back of his car, but unlike when she was married to Nate and miserable, she no longer had a desire to escape to his arms again, to see if the old passion was still there. She knew who she wanted. Just thinking of him made her smile again.

"You're thinking of him right now, ain't ya?" Rob's dry rasp made her blush, and he chuckled. "Yep. You got it bad. Though Nick tells me I was just as moony in the early days with me and El."

"Does Nick approve of you and Ellie?"

"I think so. Old man keeps his cards close to the chest. But I don't think he'd let me anywhere near the agency if he objected." He glanced down at his empty bowl. "He knows what I've done to try to make amends for my time with the gang. Now I just gotta see if she'll forgive me."

She leaned over and squeezed his hand. "You've got to forgive yourself too."

"Beatrice?" Amelia's voice came from inside the bathhouse.

"I'll get going," Rob said, standing and taking her empty bowl. "Lemme know when she's ready to hit the road. I'll make sure we're all set."

Amelia seemed more normal after her bath. Cleaned up with fresh clothes on, she looked probably about Beatrice's age. While she went to eat breakfast, Beatrice took a bath herself, though it was very quick: just enough to scrub most of the dirt off her skin and hair. No lingering soak for her.

Amelia was done eating and ready to go home to her father when Beatrice got out of the bath, so Beatrice tied up her wet hair in a loose bun and went to find Deacon while Amelia chatted with Rob near the road.

Only, she couldn't find him.

The guest house room was empty. She looked under the bed, wondering if there was a note that got misplaced, but she only found a few dust bunnies.

Frowning, she checked the the rock outside where they'd talked, and rest of the guest rooms, including the main house across the road. No sign of Deacon, though she did find clothes that fit her folded up on the guest room bed, the little notebook of names from Covenant tucked into one of its pockets. Had Deacon found clothes for her? Why would he do that and not stick around to take credit?

"Something wrong?" asked Rob as she walked down the porch dressed and with her pack, frowning.

"I can't find Deacon," she said. "I wonder where he is?"

"Deacon?" said a nearby settler who was calf-deep in the river, pulling in nets. "The sunglasses guy, right? I saw him leave about, oh, maybe an hour ago?"

Her heart lurched. "Leave? What do you mean?"

The settler scratched up under a straw hat, considering. "Had a bag and gun over his shoulders and hurried off south down the road."

"Did he… did he say anything?"

"Nope. Just kept walking."

"Maybe he went to scout ahead," Rob said, glancing at her. "Raiders like to gather at that corner by the old police station…"

She didn't say anything. Something had happened. He wouldn't just leave without saying anything… would he?

 _You... you love me?_ She went still at the memory of this morning. The shock in his voice. The… was it fear? Had she scared him off with her confession?

Maybe she'd moved too fast; pushed him into revealing things he wasn't ready for. She'd been so cautious of her own feelings, so uncertain of his, but after she'd nursed baby Naomi, those walls she'd put up to protect herself crumbled into dust, and she'd simply dived into him without thought or regret. Maybe she hadn't noticed something; or misread something he said or did. Maybe she'd simply overwhelmed him.

Or maybe he was terrified of admitting how he felt too.

She wavered between fear and a surge of anger. How _dare_ he leave without an explanation! If this had happened in the early days of their partnership, she probably would have shrugged and moved on, accepting that he'd popped a Stealth Boy like he always claimed he wanted to do. But they were way beyond that. This wouldn't be the first time he'd put up a hasty barrier when he thought they were getting too close. But that had usually resulted in a big lie… not outright abandonment.

She sucked in a breath. His confession about the gang and Barbara… had that been a lie?

No. She refused to believe that. She knew Deacon. He was telling her the truth that time, she was sure.

Piper's words came back to her, unbidden. _How well can you know a liar?_

"Bea?" Rob sounded worried. "What do you want to do?"

She took a deep breath and smiled at the settler. "Tom, right?" The settler nodded, looking pleased to be remembered. "I'm headed to Bunker Hill. I think Deacon and I have just had a miscommunication. If he stops by, let him know where I went, okay?"

"Sure thing, General."

She turned to Rob and Amelia, who looked concerned, and tried to smile. "It's no big deal," she said with a lightness she didn't feel. "You're probably right about the scouting thing. I'm sure he's waiting for us at Bunker Hill by now."

 _And if he's not?_ She didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to consider that possibility. Oh how casually she'd thought about hearts regrowing the night before, but now, in the harsh light of a Commonwealth day, the idea that he'd run away from her because he didn't love her was so painful she almost couldn't breathe.

 _He'll be there._ She had to believe that. Or, she thought, suddenly buoyed by hope, HQ. Maybe he'd gone to HQ. After all, they'd just shut down a major operation and helped one of their financial backers in the process. Yes, that was it. He'd probably gotten to thinking about what Dez needed to know and went to report in. The Old North Church was a quick hike across the river from Bunker Hill. Maybe he would check in with Dez and then meet them at Bunker Hill with his usual cocky grin and a witty greeting about them being late or something. She would call him an ass for leaving her behind, and he'd give her a quip that would make her grumpy but eventually she'd forgive him because though she was startled to be left behind, telling Dez right away what had happened was a good reason to leave early. Without telling her.

It was.

Perhaps if she kept repeating it to herself, she'd believe it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Deacon wasn't waiting for them Bunker Hill. Beatrice hung back with Rob as Amelia tearfully reunited with her father just outside the main gate to the trading post. Old Man Stockton saw them before they arrived and came running out to meet them. She was happy for Amelia and her father; pleased to have something good to help replace the memory of Penny dying in the mud beside the river.

She let Rob handle Stockton's gratitude, hanging back, looking around for a familiar set of shoulders and sunglasses. They'd seen evidence of Deacon's passing as they walked to the trader hub—a fresh raider corpse on the side of the street, which had made her hopeful that the scouting ahead was what he'd done. But now they were here and he was not.

"And you," Stockton said, startling her as her eyes followed a patched blue coat—but when the man turned, she saw the face was all wrong. "Ah, I think I've seen you around here before, trading." He gave her a meaningful nod, though Beatrice was in no mood for cloak-and-dagger activities. Then she remembered: Stockton knew Deacon too.

"Have you seen Deacon? Recently, I mean. Today."

Stockton looked startled, his gaze darting to Rob.

"It's fine. He's a friend," Beatrice said impatiently.

"I, uh, have not seen our mutual friend today," Stockton said carefully, "though it's my understanding when he doesn't want to be seen, he's adept at it." The disappointment must have shown on her face because he relented. "Around here, he usually shows up as a worker named Derek. Ask around at the stalls, or Tony. He's a terrible gossip and would probably have noticed him coming in."

"Thank you!" she said and took a step to leave before turning back to Amelia. "Good luck. If you ever need anything, leave word for me at Taffington. They'll know how to reach me."

"Thank you. For everything." Amelia smiled, chin wobbling.

Beatrice wandered around the Hill, trying to be casual, yet dread growing inside her with each head that shook in the negative, each uninterested "No, I haven't seen him."

Rob was waiting for her when she finished talking to Dr. Kay, who also hadn't seen "Derek" in some time. "Where to?" He stood from where he'd been leaning against a wall.

She swallowed her tears, not sure if they were prompted from her growing knot of fear or Rob's unquestioning offer to accompany her. "I… I can think of one place he might be, but… I can't take you there. We'll go as far as possible," she said. "But you have to stay where I tell you."

She left him in an empty boxing club right behind the Old North Church that had been cleared of anything more dangerous than cobwebs ages ago and whose boarded up windows ensured he wouldn't see her enter the Railroad hideout.

Deacon wasn't there either, though she got the first hint of his presence since leaving Taffington.

"He had a runner send a note a couple of hours ago," Dez said, looking irritated when Beatrice asked. "I didn't expect to see you for awhile; how was the mission?"

Beatrice scanned the note Desdemona handed to her, which was written in Deacon's jagged scrawl: _Gone fishing. Be back soon! D & W._ If he'd sent it a "couple of hours ago" that would have been right after their conversation. But D & W...

Deacon and Whisper?

"Um. It was successful." She gave a quick rundown, making sure to emphasize the rescue of Amelia and Stockton's gratitude. "Look, Dez, can I write up a more detailed one later? I really want to get going…"

Desdemona eyed her narrowly. "Fine," she said shortly. "Just make sure it's more legible than this." She jabbed a finger at Deacon's note.

Turning to leave, she caught Carrington's eye. He sniffed, and went back to his work, but not before she saw him pouring vodka from a bottle into a tray filled with surgical tools. Her heart lifted a little; he had listened to her.

She took a step forward to say something, but out of the corner of her eye, she witnessed Glory walk up beside Dez, sling an arm around her shoulder, and pluck the cigarette from the other woman's mouth, and take a long drag, before giving it back. It was so casually intimate that Beatrice's mouth dropped open, and she instinctively glanced around for Deacon to gloatingly share the moment with. Maybe Dez wouldn't kill them after all for… for doing whatever they were doing, not when it seemed she had her own affairs.

But her heart fell anew because of course Deacon wasn't there.

She left the Railroad HQ and returned to where she'd left Rob, shaking her head when he asked if there was any news.

"Only this," she said, giving him the note. "It's his handwriting."

He read the note, craggy brow furrowing. "D & W?"

"Whisper is my code name. If that's what it stands for."

"So it seems like he was including you in… wherever he was going. You sure you didn't see a note?"

"I checked everywhere."

"Hmm." Rob gave the note back to her. "Okay. So let's do worst case scenario and he's running out for some reason. He got spooked or whatever. What would be the first thing he did?"

Beatrice's eyes widened in horrified realization. "Oh no."

#

"If you want facial reconstruction, you'll have to book an advance appointment," said Dr. Sun waspishly. "Dr. Crocker's regulars all had to be rescheduled onto my calendar which is already quite full."

"No, I don't need surgery," Beatrice said, impatient as the late afternoon crowd of Diamond City bustled around the market. "I just wanted to know if Dr. Crocker had… performed surgery on... Look, can I just talk to Crocker?"

"Doc Crocker hasn't done any surgeries in awhile. And he won't be doing them either; he's dead," said a familiar voice. Beatrice turned to see Nick walk up from the direction of the noodle stand. "Kid. Good to see you, though I'm a bit surprised. What business do you have with Crocker? Girl like you doesn't need any work done." His yellow gaze drifted to Rob's masked figure, and he nodded in greeting.

"Deacon. He's… he's gone missing after our mission, and I thought… if he's trying to hide, he'd come here to get a face change." Beatrice was having a harder time holding onto the rising hysteria in her chest. She was back in that hotel room with Nate, bare and brittle as he told her he didn't want her. She was cradling newborn Shaun in her arms, then looking up at Nate, hoping, praying that now he'd be faithful; now he'd be a good husband because he'd want to be a good father, and then watching him walk out of the hospital room with barely more than a tired glance at their baby.

She was alone—no husband, no baby, and now, no partner.

 _And yet,_ came a soft reminder in her heart, the part that had looked into Deacon's unhidden eyes and known he was telling the truth, _he put "D & W" on that note. Why?_

Nick frowned, tipping the brim of his hat up to look at her better. "Deacon was here a couple of hours ago, but he didn't go anywhere near the surgery center. Had a bunch of bags with him, like he'd done some shopping. Said if I needed to get hold of him or you to send word to the lighthouse up on the coast. But only for emergency reasons. He seemed adamant about that."

Beatrice stilled. The Kingsport Lighthouse was a future Minutemen site still in need of some work before it was ready for settlers. She and Deacon cleared it of Child of Atom adherents by accident a couple of weeks ago. And "by accident" she meant they watched from the safety of an old public restroom on the beach while the Atom fanatics and a wandering group of Super Mutants got into an all-out war. The Super Mutants won, but of the original group, only two were left standing. Deacon took them both out with his sniper rifle and suddenly, the place was theirs to claim. It had the potential to be a good settlement site, but they hadn't had time to do more than burn all the bodies and make a habitable room available so they could camp in relative comfort if needed. Why would Deacon go there and make sure to tell Nick (but not Dez) that they could both be reached there?

What the hell was going on?

She thanked Nick, then hurried to Piper's where she was nearly bowled over by an excited Dogmeat. Piper was out chasing down a story, said Nat in a grumpy voice, though Beatrice was relieved she wouldn't have to explain what was going on just yet. She knew Piper would work herself up into crusade mode and by the end of the night she'd be writing articles denouncing all men everywhere including and especially the bald, sunglasses-wearing type. Beatrice had no problem with the theory, but she at least wanted to know he deserved it before she got Piper involved. She grabbed her pack and latched on her Pip-Boy, marking Kingsport Lighthouse on the map, waiting outside the Publick Occurrences office as the little computer calculated out a route.

"Bea."

The Pip-Boy chirped. It was going to be a three hour hike.

"Beatrice."

She looked up at Rob's insistent tone, ready to defend herself for tracking down a man who had run from her, but he was smiling. At least, she thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell behind the surgical mask he'd used to hide his lack of nose and ghoulish skin.

"Let me call in a favor so we're not hiking there in the dark." As he spoke, she noticed the sky over the stadium wasn't quite as bright as it had been when they arrived. It would be full dark by the time she arrived at the lighthouse.

"What kind of favor?" She raised an eyebrow. "Won a bet with a pegasus? Or are you hiding a plane in a secret underground bunker?"

His smile widened. "Better than that. Come on. It's not far."

Curiosity piqued, she followed Rob out of the city, swallowing her objections as they crossed the river heading northwest over a precariously open bridge, the opposite direction of where she needed to go. He lead her past the crumbling but still recognizable facade of the CIT ruins, then west along the road that followed the river.

Ducking into an alley between a couple of buildings, she was surprised to see light at the end and several tall military-looking barriers obscuring most of a brick building. Then Rob paused, turning to face her.

"This, uh, may not be the most pleasant thing to witness, but trust me, they owe me a favor, and I shouldn't be in any danger. I think."

Beatrice stared at him. "Rob, what are you—" Then she saw the logo etched into the side of the barriers, her eyes having adjusted to the darkness of the alley.

They were at a Brotherhood of Steel outpost.


	21. Chapter 21

"You're taking these _scavvers_ on a vertibird?"

The man with a boxer's face and snarling expression looked comically small next to the bushy-haired paladin encased from neck to toe in hulking power armor as if he expected to be attacked in the middle of a fortified bunker. Then again, Beatrice recalled the quick story Rob had told her of rescuing the Brotherhood soldiers from wave after wave of ferals. Perhaps his paranoia was well placed.

"Soldier, you are out of line," snapped the paladin, whom Rob had greeted earlier as Danse. "You are alive because of this... civilian."

"A filthy ghoul!" spat the other man.

Danse shot a look of utmost disgust at Rob, not denying the words. Beatrice fumed silently, but he'd asked her not to interfere.

"If I may, sir," said a soft-spoken woman wearing scribe gear from the wall. "All our lives were saved by this ghoul. Rhys would have died if he hadn't come to our aid—we probably all would have. He's not asking for caps, or weapons, or tech: just a ride, which we can very easily accommodate." She coughed delicately. "And we could log the trip as a surveying mission."

"You shouldn't have made a deal with a ghoul in the first place. Just tell him to leave, and that's the end of it," the pugnacious man—Rhys—sneered.

"Yeah," Rob drawled. "Tell your commanding officer to back out of the deal; that's the real honorable thing to do. Classic Brotherhood."

"Watch it, ghoul," snapped Danse. "And Rhys, the last thing we need is to upset locals. The Brotherhood has to show civilians we are here to do good."

"Unlike tiny over there, I ain't under your command, Paladin," Rob said easily. "My chief back in the day would have dunked you in his coffee and had you for breakfast."

Danse blinked. "Your… chief?"

Rob waved a finger in the air, indicating the building around them. "This used to be where I worked, bub. My desk is in pieces at the far end of this room."

Danse narrowed his eyes. "You were… police? Pre-war civilian military." The Brotherhood paladin looked very uncomfortable at the thought of having anything in common with a ghoul.

"Not really but close enough. Look," Rob said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of what was left of his nose. "You don't have to take me. Just take my friend here. Then we're square. You won't have to see me again."

Danse looked Beatrice up and down, seeming to find her less objectionable than a ghoul. "I can do that. As long as she obeys my orders while we're in the air."

Beatrice frowned. "Rob, no—"

"Bea," he said clasping her shoulders, "you don't need me to be with you when you find out what's going on with ol' _Preston_. Just… check in with me as soon as you can, okay? Leave word with Nicky if I'm not in Goodneighbor. I want to know you're okay,"

"Goodneighbor!" scoffed Rhys. "A lawless den of perverse chemheads who—"

"Thank you," Beatrice said, ignoring the other man. "Thank you for coming with me." She pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek ignoring the sounds of disgust from the Brotherhood soldiers in the room. "Go talk to Ellie."

He smiled crookedly at her. "Guess I can't tell you to go and do something I've been putting off too. Alright. Take care, Bea." He gave Dogmeat a goodbye pat, then turned and walked out the door.

"Follow me, civilian." Paladin Danse didn't wait to see if she followed but turned and stomped away into the old police station, his footfalls raising clouds of dust with each step.

She followed him up a set of stairs she was certain would collapse under his weight, but they held, creaking the whole time. The stairs ended at a roof access door. With his longer strides, Danse was already at the vertibird, talking to the pilot—or lancers, she thought they were called. He gestured her forward, and she climbed in, noticing there were only handholds to keep her from a very long fall if something went wrong. It was the kind of aircraft used to quickly drop off soldiers in a hot zone, not a luxurious airplane flight with meals and in-flight entertainment. Dogmeat leapt in beside her, and she grabbed onto his collar, glad she'd fitted him with one, though now she was wishing she'd had a leash for him as well. The lancer nodded shortly in greeting, but didn't speak, which suited her fine. Danse climbed in after her, his armor's weight shaking the aircraft.

"Hold on to this one," he said, tapping a handhold further down. "You can sit down on the trip. That will help you with the dog too." He gestured to a hinged bench along the back wall of the vertibird.

She unfolded it and sat down, Dogmeat sitting on the rest, his head in her lap. At least here she felt a little more stable than she had standing up.

The lancer began the take-off process and her stomach swooped as the vertibird dipped and lurched. To avoid looking at the rapidly retreating ground, she turned to look at her only other human companion on the flight. Paladin Danse was watching her, his dark eyes serious and thoughtful.

"You kissed that ghoul."

"Good to know your eyes work." She winced. Deacon was a bad influence sometimes.

He narrowed his eyes. "You aren't worried about disease… or his going feral?" Then he shifted, looking uncomfortable for a moment. "I apologize. Those are questions of a personal nature."

She studied him, surprised. Most Brotherhood patrols she'd encountered had been terse: minor arguments over Brotherhood patrols stomping through Minutemen settlements without regard for property. Not hostile, but for the most part a little condescending of civilians, and she knew they were not kindly disposed toward the Railroad either, because of their habit of treating synths like people who deserved to have a life of their own. She'd never thought she'd see a paladin of all things apologize for lack of tact.

"Disease is everywhere in the Commonwealth," she said with a shrug. "Ghouls don't have a monopoly on bacteria and viruses."

"True enough," he agreed cautiously, as if suspecting she was trying to wrangle him into some kind of word trap.

"Humans are just as likely to go violent and kill someone too, just like a feral," she said. "There are enough raiders out there to prove that."

He frowned, as if wanting to contradict her but didn't quite know how.

"At least with ghouls you know it's coming, sooner or later," he said at last. Then he turned to look at the passing countryside, signalling an end to the conversation.

Beatrice didn't bother to pursue it. Her need for distraction from the bumpy flight had ended and now she could only think of what was ahead of her.

Deacon. And answers, for better or for worse.

The rest of the flight was smooth, aside from the bumpy beginning, and she was surprised. In her pre-war life, she'd always heard people complaining about air travel. Her own experience was limited. She'd only flown once as a child on a family vacation when it was easier to travel for Chinese Americans. The government had set stricter and stricter limits on their travel throughout her adulthood.

"Coming in on the landing zone, sir," said the lancer, and she started, glancing ahead of them. Sure enough, the white tower of the lighthouse was visible through the glass windshields straight ahead. Paladin Danse glanced around below at the debris-strewn beach, his thick brows furrowed.

"Are you sure this is where you want to be dropped off? This doesn't look like a very safe area."

"I'll be fine. I'm meeting a…" _Friend? Lover? Partner?_ "I'm meeting someone," she finished. She'd know exactly what Deacon was in a few minutes. Her stomach gave another swoop, this time unrelated to the air currents buffeting the vertibird.

"Very well. Take us down, Kapraski," said the paladin to the lancer.

The aircraft landed on a stretch of the road that wasn't blocked by rusted cars or fallen trees. Beatrice let go of Dogmeat's collar and he leapt out.

"Thank you for the ride, Paladin. Have a safe flight back."

His eyebrows lifted, perhaps surprised at the thank-you. "Ma'am." He nodded.

She hopped down, legs wobbling a little on solid ground, and scurried away, ducking to avoid the dust swept up by the 'bird's blades. Once she was clear, it took off, headed back the way they came. Beatrice checked her Pip-Boy and her eyes widened. Barely twenty minutes had passed since they'd left the roof of the police station. Maybe she ought to make friends with the Brotherhood. She'd never have to camp in another feral-infested ruin again.

She took a deep breath and turned toward the lighthouse. "No more stalling, boy," she said to Dogmeat. He barked happily and nudged her hand, as if to say, "go get him."

Her fear displaced into anger as she walked up the steep road to get to the Lighthouse and the keeper's house. Why had he left? Why had he made her worry so much?

She barely had the house in sight when the door opened, and Deacon stepped out with a huge smile and her heart gave an enormous flop that left her breathless. Then she steeled herself and marched toward him.

"Where. The. Hell. Have. You. Been. Hiding?"

His smile faded. He had his sunglasses on and that just made her angrier. "Hiding?"

Beatrice rolled her eyes to the sky. "Yes, you ass! Hiding! I crisscrossed half the Commonwealth tracking you down. It's a good thing you told Nick where you were going, otherwise I wouldn't have any idea of where to go so I could kick your ass!"

He seemed to wilt a little, his voice small. "You didn't come here because of my note?"

Beatrice threw up her hands. "What note? All I know is that I told you I loved you, you finally opened up to me, and then you disappear. How else am I supposed to take that, Deacon?"

"Oh… _hell_." He took off his sunglasses, and the stricken look on his face made her fountaining anger ebb. "Look, I didn't mean... The note. In the notebook. You didn't see it? I put it there because you were looking at it again and again and I thought you'd see it, and you'd know..."

Beatrice paused, then reached into her pack where the Covenant book of lost names was stored in a small pocket. As she opened it, loosening the pages, a scrap of paper fell out. Unfolding it, she read:

 _I want to give you break, like we talked about. No Railroad, no Institute. The rest is a surprise. I didn't want to interrupt your chat with Rob, so catch up with me at Kingsport Lighthouse. See you soon. -_ _D._

"Oh," she said.

He took a hesitant step closer and then another, until they were close enough to touch. "I can see how that looked… damnit. I'm… I'm really sorry. I didn't think. I should have checked… I should have waited... I just got so excited about the idea… Look, I wanted to give you a gift; like I said, some time away from the Railroad and the Institute. Just you and me. If you still want me here after all this. But I do. Want you, that is. Oh, hell. I'm… Beatrice, don't cry."

She couldn't help it. The fear and anger and worry that had been building the whole afternoon, all because of something as silly as her not seeing a note, was too much and the release of relief poured out down her cheeks.

He hesitantly put his hands on her shoulders, drifting up to cup her face, his thumb wiping away the tears. "You told me this morning, and I didn't say it back because I'm an idiot, but I love you. I love you so much it scares the hell out of me. I… I'd give up face-changing for you."

Beatrice let out a half laugh, half sob, and crossed the distance, tucking herself into his arms, holding him tight. "I'm sorry I doubted you," she mumbled.

"No apology necessary." He kissed the top of her head. "It was a dumb plan. I should have confirmed with you first. Shit, I'd doubt me too."

She laughed again, and Dogmeat, wanting some of the attention, nosed his way in between them.

"Ah, my favorite third wheel," Deacon said, scratching behind his ears. "You're going to make this seduction a lot more challenging, aren't you boy?"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Seduction?"

He grinned. "Come on inside."

When they'd last been here, the house had been a haven of the Atom cultists, filthy and full of traps. They'd gotten rid of the worst of the filth and dangerous things so they could camp there, but she'd expected to need several people to help get everything ready for safe habitation. But somehow, in a few hours, Deacon had cleaned it from top to bottom. The floor had been washed—she could still smell the Abraxo in the air—and, she laughed again: Deacon had set up a pillow and blanket fort in the living room. A few chairs and random planks of wood had been propped up, covered over with blankets and couch cushions below.

"I'm so seduced right now," Beatrice said.

"You didn't see the bait." Deacon bent and picked up a stack of faded but still readable Silver Shroud comics. "I figure I'd make you dinner while you just relax and—"

Dogmeat walked right to the softest cushion he could find and curled up, looking up at them with innocent eyes and a tooth-filled yawn.

"Well, hmph," Deacon said, glaring at the dog. "But that was only one option."

He guided her out of the house. She expected him to head for the well-preserved boat house below the cliff, but instead he opened the door to the lighthouse.

"Stairs." Beatrice peered up into the dim light above. Daylight was rapidly fading and she was suddenly glad she'd allowed Rob to give her his favor with the Brotherhood. "Stairs are the ultimate seduction technique?"

Deacon chuckled. "Oh ye of little faith."

"Did you just quote the Bible?"

"I am, as you once pointed out, very well read."

"Hmm. Just when you think you know a guy, you find unexplored depths."

"I like to keep you on your toes." He kissed her hand. "Now go on, you're holding up the line."

Despite her joking around about stairs' seductiveness, Beatrice found her heart thudding from more than just exercise as they climbed the stairs. She felt so stupid to have doubted Deacon—and he'd said he loved her. It was all she could do not to just turn and press him against the wall then and there.

Finally, breathing hard from the exertion, they reached the top. Deacon grabbed her hand and guided her out on the landing that lead to the lantern room, but she tugged him back.

"I thought you didn't like heights."

"I don't, but this one will be different. Trust me." They walked up the few steel stairs to the lantern room and Beatrice paused. Deacon had cleaned here too—Abraxo smell was present, but he'd also filled most of the empty space in the small chamber with two mattresses, covered in lots of blankets and pillows. She wondered idly if he'd stolen all the spare pillows and blankets from Taffington for this. There was also a cooler with water and some food, and a radio, playing softly in the background.

"Come here," Deacon said, suddenly sounding a little shy. Her heart ticking up a notch, Beatrice followed him in and sat down on the bed, expecting him to lean forward to kiss her, but instead he lay down, pulling her down so they lay side by side.

"You can watch the stars from here," he said quietly. "And the sunrise. I know this world disappoints you a lot, and you miss home, but I thought… up here, the stars and the sun are the same, and you can pretend for a little while…"

"I don't need to pretend anymore," she said, rolling slightly so she was curled up next to him. "You were right, you know, when you accused me of wanting to bring the pre-war world back? Of not dealing with the fact that my world is gone."

He winced. "When I yelled at you?"

"Yes, but you weren't wrong. Well, you weren't all wrong." She closed her eyes a moment as he held her close and she wrapped one arm around his waist, breathing in his scent, which surprisingly lacked cigarette smoke for once. "I think I've been scared to really commit to this world, as if it's just been a bad dream, and if I tried hard enough, I could make it the way I want it to be. But I can't, and I have to accept that. And… it's not as hard as I thought. You live here, after all, and you… you feel like home to me."

Deacon reached down with his free hand, threading his fingers through her hair, then tilting her face up to meet his. He kissed her slowly, and deeply, savoring the moment.

"I'm really glad to hear you say that… but," he cleared his throat, and she could feel his pulse thundering against her hand on his chest, "can we go back down? I think I overestimated my coping strategies for being this high."

"Oh? So my feminine wiles aren't enough to make you stay up here, hmm?"

Deacon squeezed his eyes shut. "There is literally no way for me to answer that without losing, so I'm just going to say vomit isn't very romantic, and that's the hill I'm gonna die on."

"You can't even see the ground from where we are, laying like this."

He breathed out slowly. "I know it's there. Waiting. Like... like a waiting thing."

She laughed and took pity on him, letting him hold her hand as they carefully walked out of the lantern room and inside where the spiral staircase swirled down to the bottom. He needed a moment, so she sat next to him on the stairs, lightly running her fingernails up and down his back.

"Mmm. That… actually feels really good," he said after a few minutes passed and some color returned to his cheeks.

"My mother used to do this before bedtime when I was a child. She didn't often know how to talk about her feelings, but she was physically affectionate."

"So that's where you get your hugging from."

"Mmm hmm. Are you stalling?"

He winced. "Is it that obvious?"

She grinned. "You weren't nearly this bad in Boston when we went hunting for that DIA cache at the top of that skyscraper."

He grumbled as they got to their feet and began descending the spiral stairs. "Because I was trying to impress you by not being too obviously scared. You may have also thought I was going to change disguises and really I was going to go panic in a closet."

They reached the ground, and Deacon gave an audible groan of relief, while she tried not to giggle. "Food!" he said brightly, with a brisk little jump. "Terror always makes me hungry, and I promised dinner."

He hurried back into the house and she raised an eyebrow, following him into the kitchen where he stared at the directions on a box of Blamco Mac and Cheese. A radio near the stove played a familiar tune in the background, but she was focused on him and didn't really register it.

He turned, seeing her sidle up to the counter to watch him, and paused.

"Nothing else has gone right tonight but… hell with it," he muttered, tossing the box behind him. One big stride later, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her.

"About time," she murmured against his lips.

He pressed her against the edge of a cabinet, hands sliding down her behind and lifting her onto the edge of the counter. She made a pleased noise as he came to stand between her legs, and slid her hands under the back of his shirt, as he resumed kissing her. He used the opportunity to fumble behind her for the radio's volume button. _Sixty Minute Man_ crooned through the air, and Beatrice started to laugh in disbelief.

"That's a hell of a coincidence."

"Is it?" Deacon kissed her again, rocking his hips into hers and she groaned into his mouth, trying to pull his shirt off without separating from him.

The song ended on the radio, and Travis came back on the air.

"And that was _Sixty Minute Man_ … FOR THE FIFTIETH TIME IN ROW. I am NEVER taking requests again. I don't care HOW many caps you give me. NEVER. AGAIN."

Beatrice stared at Deacon. "No."

"Yep." His voice was smug. "Worth every cap." He smoothed a hand over her hip, squeezing gently. "Now," he said, peppering kisses along her jaw. "Let's take this show on the road…. And by road I mean the bedroom upstairs because Dogmeat being an audience is not the night I had envisioned. And by show I mean—"

"Deacon."

"Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

END

* * *

Thank you for reading! A million thanks to Quinzelade who not only beta read the first version of this fic chapter by chapter, but also insisted on reading it over again as a whole story. She has written my favorite SS/Danse fic, which you can find here and on Ao3 under "By No Constraint." Also, she has a new fic coming soon also set in the same Fallout-verse: "Making Ones Bones."


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